The Will To Live
by Obsidian Productions
Summary: Corporal Greg Walker has just woken up on a distant, snowbound world. As he begins exploring his environment, trying to remember what he's doing there and why he woke up freezing to death and injured, he learns that he is not alone. With few allies and dwindling resources, it will take everything he has to survive the horrors of this icy nightmare.
1. Chapter 01: The Dark & The Cold

**PART ONE  
** –The Great Desolation–

* * *

Greg Walker opened his eyes and stared up at a sky of dead gray iron.

For a few seconds, he could feel nothing, and wondered vaguely if he had been paralyzed. Or perhaps he was dead. But as some inscrutable division of time eked by, he became aware of things. A madly shrieking wind. Brittle snowflakes descending from those dead skies. And pain. It was nebulous and thin, more the memory of pain than of pain itself, but he felt it. This still didn't quite answer the question of whether or not he was dead.

Greg tried to speak.

Something like a wheeze came out of him, and that seemed to invoke slightly more pain, though it was still distant and weak. The dead didn't feel pain...or they _always_ felt pain, maybe. But this pale imitation of suffering didn't seem to hold up on either end of that spectrum. Greg tried to focus, to get some sensation going in his body, to do _something_.

He said, "Am I dead?"

The words actually escaped his lips this time, and he could hear his own voice. Something seemed to snap inside of him, like a heavy switch being thrown, and suddenly the world sharpened into focus, and then a powerful pulse of what might have been anger surged through him. He jerked, or tried to at least, and felt his body move.

"I'm not dead," he growled, and became slowly aware of the fact that he was immensely cold. Perhaps colder than he had ever been in his life.

Greg sat up and began shivering.

He surveyed an icebound wasteland.

Where in the _hell_ was he?

Cognition was slow, but his brain gradually began to come back online. Upright, he had to get upright. Greg had goals to complete, things to do, even if right now he didn't know what those things might be. His brain kept catching as it restarted, like a lighter that wouldn't light or an engine that wouldn't turn over. Warm. He needed warm. Above all else. Or he was going to die. He began shivering more violently as his body awoke.

Okay, he had to think through this.

How to achieve warmth?

 _Fire_ was the first word that came to mind. He had to make a fire. Images of wood and tinder drifted with an aching lethargy through his brain as he sat there freezing in the snow. Somewhere ahead of him, he thought he could see a body of water and stands of trees.

"Get up," Greg whispered through gritted, chattering teeth. "Get _up._ "

He willed his muscles to move, his body to respond, and finally it did. He got slowly, painfully to his feet. Looking down at himself, he saw that some of his ballistics armor was missing, and his uniform was torn in places, and stained with blood. He remembered...a Pelican. He had been riding a Pelican down from orbit. And there had been others. And…

No. He could remember later.

Memory was a luxury right now. At this very moment, he needed to focus the whole of his being on getting to shelter and making a fire. Because already his senses were feeding him more information. The daylight was rapidly bleeding from the skies, the snow was falling faster and harder, the winds were shrieking more powerfully. A storm was on rapid approach, his brain whispered to him, and if he didn't get inside, he would die. He would fall back asleep and he would freeze to death, nothing but a solid lump buried in a snowdrift.

No. He wasn't going to let that happen to himself.

Greg groaned as the cold hit him harder, sapping what precious little energy he had left in his tanks. He did a three sixty, forcing his feet, his legs to move, and scoped out the immediate area. As he faced the opposite direction, he saw it. Shelter. Survival. Salvation. A rise in the land with a dark opening that was already fading fast from view in the pallid, dwindling light. A few dead trees sat in between him and his destination, lonely and miserable, like skeletal hands reaching through the earth to the heavens beyond.

Trees. Wood. Wood burned.

So that was half the equation of fire solved, but how to start it? He'd have to figure that out later. Already, the prospect of walking to the cave and gathering whatever he could find was looking like one of the most difficult things he'd ever had to do in his life. His whole body still felt largely unresponsive and was throbbing in dull, aching agony now. When (if) he managed to get warm, he was in for a world of hurt.

As he started walking, the world tipped and swayed as his sense of balance came loose, and he screamed weakly, losing his footing. Greg went sprawling in the snow and fresh jags of pain echoed through his frame as he hit the ground.

"Come on, come _on!_ " he cried, almost begged, as he waited for the pain to subside again. Once it was back down to a more tolerable level, he forced himself back up. Breathing heavily, waiting for the world to stop spinning, he leaned forward, hands resting on his knees. Thoughts wanted to come, questions that desperately needed answering, but he pushed them away with a weakening strength of will. Fire first.

Straightening up again, Greg took a few deep breaths. He made himself stand up straight and wasted a precious few moments banishing the pain from his mind as best he could. There had been a lot of pain in his life, a tremendous amount of it really, and he had practice at storing it elsewhere when the time called for it. And now was most certainly one of those times. He closed his eyes as he took those breaths, and when he opened them again, the world seemed more focused. More there. He felt more grounded to reality.

"I can do this," he whispered, and set off again.

This time he didn't fall when he stumbled. The cave could be no more than twenty five or thirty meters away from his present location, but it didn't seem to grow closer as he walked through the frigid snowfall, kicking his way through drifts of snow. Something dark lay on the ground ahead of him. He paused as he reached it and saw it for what it was: a stick. Greg stared at it for a few seconds, and was alarmed to realize that he'd nearly forgotten his intended task. Good lord, his head was a mess right now. If he didn't get to that cave and start a fire soon, he really would die. He was beginning to realize that his skull ached badly.

The pain and the cold were hard to think through, but he forced himself onward anyway, kneeling and scooping up the stick. There were more, he saw, gathered around a dead tree to his left. He marched over to it, focusing on each raise of his leg, each step, each simple action. It was all he could manage in this moment. One stick became two. Two became four. Four became ten, as well as a little collection of bark.

He continued walking, picking up everything he saw that might help him, and the skies grew dimmer. The snow continued to fall harder. The winds were roaring now, not merely shrieking. The storm was nearly upon him. Greg was shivering so hard he kept having to stop and pick up sticks that he was dropping, costing him precious seconds. But he needed these sticks, this meager supply of fuel, if he was to survive the coming night.

Nearer to the cave, he saw a big branch that had been dislodged by the winds perhaps. That might very well be his salvation. He paused for a few seconds, considering if maybe he could somehow grab it as well, but surmised that he would have to come back for it. Which would have to be fast because the light was almost gone now. Instead, he finished loading his arms down with whatever other tinder and kindling he could find, and continued his slow, agonizing march to the dark socket in the earth that might save his life tonight.

As he reached the cave and then entered it, Greg felt his body wanting to give out. Theoretically he could just collapse and make the fire a few feet deeper in. But no, he had no idea how long the night here was, wherever this was, and he needed that big branch. Dumping everything he'd gathered on the floor of the cave, Greg forced himself to turn around and march back out into the frozen wasteland. He could just barely make out the branch. It couldn't have been more than three meters away, but walking there felt like crossing a field.

Reaching the branch, he knelt and grabbed it, as well as a few other sticks and twigs that had been dislodged by the winds. For a few seconds, he was tempted to continue his search, but as he glanced back over his shoulder and realized that he almost couldn't see the cave anymore, even this close to it, a bolt of cold fear shot through him and he gave up that notion immediately. Instead, he turned and stomped through the snow as fast as he could. When he reached the cave once more, the sun had gone and he was left in almost total darkness.

Swallowing the primal fear that was rising within him, trying to find its way out and push him over the edge into a full-blown panic, Greg stood completely still a few feet into the cave and closed his eyes. It was a practically useless gesture, but it seemed to help focus him at least. Centering himself, he asked the next question: How to _start_ the fire? If he didn't figure that out, he was dead. Supplies, he remembered at once, he had supplies on him!

Or he should, anyway.

He'd come down in full combat gear, which had a lot of pockets. His thoughts still felt slippery and muddled, but he made his hands work, his fingers going through his varied pockets one by one after dropping the big branch. His assault rifle was gone, obviously. And as he had that thought, one hand fell to his hip, where his pistol should be, but it was gone too. Holster and all. His medical kit was missing as well.

A lot of his pockets had torn open or ripped in places, letting the supplies out. But he still had two things on him, two glorious things: a flare and a flashlight. Breathing heavily still, his lungs burning with the frigid air, teeth chattering madly, Greg activated the flashlight. The lens was cracked, and the beam was weak and flickered several times, but it was light, and more than enough to show him the interior of the cave.

For a few seconds, he felt a new terror come to him.

Things lived in caves, sometimes.

But his pale beam of weak light revealed that this cave wasn't particularly deep. He could see the back of it, and there didn't seem to be any side tunnels or big niches where something could hide. Rocks were scattered along the ground. That got his mind, and his body, moving again. He'd need rocks to build the fire. Greg moved deeper into the cave, spending a few minutes moving his meager supply of wood and bark and rocks back into the deepest part of it, the farthest point away from the cold and the snow.

There was actually a little niche, he saw, near the back. The wall jutted out a few feet and provided a small space. His head throbbing, his whole body aching dully, the cold gnawing away at him, Greg dropped to his hands and knees and, with shaking hands, assembled his fire. Placing the rocks in a rough circle, he then piled the twigs and sticks and bark in that circlet of stone. And then came the next part, the one he wasn't looking forward to. He was going to have to break the branch up. Getting back to his feet, he planted one boot firmly on the branch, close to the thin end, and then reached down, got a good grip, and pulled.

He broke off about a quarter of it and set it in the pile, then repeated this process twice more. It was harder the second time, and harder still the third, requiring several moments of grunting and pained tugging before finally the branch snapped. Once that was done, Greg settled himself into the niche and then spent a few more moments assembling the pile as best he could, going for as long of a burn as possible, because he could tell that he was going to pass out, and for a good long while, and soon. His head was swimming now, his movements growing sluggish. Figuring that the pile of kindling was about as good as it was going to get, he grabbed his flare and broke it open. Electric, flickering blue light filled the cave and temporarily blinded him. He stuck it down into the pile and began the process of getting the fire going.

Luck finally found him. It didn't take all that long.

The flames grew into existence and immediately a wave of warmth began to wash over him. Greg released a deep sigh of relief and leaned back against the wall. Already, he was beginning to drift off. Briefly, he wondered what would happen if he had a concussion or a brain bleed or a cracked skull, or if the fire went out.

Well, the answer at least was simple.

He would die.

If that was the case, then these might be his last few moments of life. As far as dying moments went, he supposed this wasn't too bad. Although he was alone and in pain in a cave on an alien world, unsure of how he had gotten there or what had happened, after that grueling walk through the freezing snowstorm, just sitting down in front of a fire felt so good that he almost didn't mind the fact that he could die soon.

And then Greg Walker fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 02: Echoes After A Storm

He woke up cold.

Greg snapped his eyes open and straightened up, performing a quick survey of his immediate environment. There were...rock walls. And white daylight. And the remains of a fire in front of him. He remembered...being freezing, and in pain, and his thoughts so broken and incoherent that for a few seconds, he thought he might be waking from a blackout drunk night. Only this was not that haze of a hangover, and he hadn't taken a drink in years.

And this was a cave.

Well, whatever the case, he felt much clearer now, his thoughts faster and more concise. He slowly got to his feet, groaning with the effort and the pain of the action. His whole body was stiff and sore, though there was a layer of cold numbness to everything that partially muted it all. Looking down at himself, he saw that his uniform was as he remembered it: tattered, ripped, and bloodied. Everything hurt. What the hell had happened?

Before he got to that train of thought, Greg took inventory of himself first.

He determined that he had no broken bones, and, at least as far as he could tell, was not actively bleeding anywhere. Well, that was a good start, actually. An added bonus: the fact that he'd actually woken up meant he probably didn't have a concussion or a brain bleed. He recalled his name: Greg Walker. His rank: Corporal, in the United Nations Space Command. His age: twenty six. All of this came to him without hesitation. He wanted to perform a diagnostic test on his cognitive abilities, but that required another person. Even something as simple as having someone tell him five random animals and having him repeat them back would be enough, but he was, as far as he could tell, alone here in this cave.

Okay, so his mind and his body were, if not fully functional, at least intact.

Which meant that whatever tasks lay ahead, he could do. Or, more accurately: he _had_ to do. Because obviously something catastrophic had happened. He'd survived catastrophes and calamities and disasters before, but only by keeping a tight watch on his self control and pushing himself to tremendous lengths to survive.

Next, he took stock of his inventory. Pieces of his armor were missing, including his helmet. That was going to be a big problem. Another problem: he had no weapons. Not even a combat knife. A third problem: he had almost zero inventory. In fact, the only thing he could find was a damaged flashlight. After checking his pockets carefully and thoroughly twice over, he determined that yes, this flashlight was all he had to his name. With a sigh, he pocketed it and then stepped over the dead fire. He was very cold and he'd need to restart it. And if only he had his canteen, he could melt some snow and get something to drink.

Those were his first problems: getting warm, getting something to drink, and getting something to eat. Although really food could wait. He doubted he'd been asleep for that long, and although he didn't feel hungry now, and he knew that when he did it would be powerful, he could for at least a few weeks without food if absolutely necessary. It would be pretty detrimental to his health, but he had bigger concerns right now.

Greg looked ahead of him, at the exit of the cave, and saw a world of white and blue. Where was he? That was something he had to find out, but that would come later. At least, hopefully it would. He walked out of the cave, coming to stand just a few feet beyond the entrance. The whole world was covered in a fresh layer of snow that made everything both eerily silent and picturesque. He remembered this place only through a haze of madly blowing snow and shrieking winds and rapidly fading light.

But everything was bright and smooth and clear now. The sunshine was clean and felt amazing on his face and body. From his vantage point, he saw several isolated trees, two of which he remembered desperately gathering fallen twigs and sticks from the previous night. Surrounding him on all sides were trees, nothing but trees and trees and more trees. In this little clearing he resided in, all he could see besides the trees and the snowy ground was a lake. Well, a pond really. Maybe somewhere in between the two. What qualified a lake as a lake anyway? Or a pond? Things were floating in the lake, so the water wasn't totally frozen over.

Maybe that could be a source of water, although there was still the trouble of boiling it. He didn't want to risk drinking contaminated water. He still had no idea where he was. Obviously the temperature, gravity, and atmosphere were all within acceptable tolerance as he wasn't having any trouble breathing, but there were still a _lot_ of things to consider on an alien world. Even a colonized one, which he prayed this was.

As Greg began a slow walk that gradually picked up the pace as his battered body started working out the stiffness, his mind began to run through the previous day's events. Now that he'd had sleep and it was daytime, he could actually think, and he remembered. He had been riding a Pelican down from orbit with his Fireteam. They numbered twelve in all, plus the pilot, and were one of two squads sent down from their ship.

Their ship…

Yes. He had been living on the UNSC _Icarus_ for three months now. He frowned as he remembered that. It had been bad recently, it had been hell really. Knowing that Earth was under direct attack from the Covenant now, and he wasn't there to help. No, he was out here on the fringes, putting out the little fires that cropped up whenever the Covenant assaulted another world, another ship, another colony. And how many of those had ended in retreat? Or a Pyrrhic victory where they ended up destroying what they were trying to protect in the process of 'protecting' it because the Covenant were so ruthless and reckless?

Greg shook his head and put that out of his mind, or tried to. And then his train of thought actually derailed as he stepped on something hard and flat. For a second, he thought it might be a rock, but as he pulled his foot back and looked down at the freshly fallen snow, he saw something silver glinting. His heart skipped a beat and he crouched, then grabbed whatever it was and liberated it from the snow. His canteen! Oh holy crap, his canteen. He brushed snow from it as he straightened back up. This was a massive win as far as his survival went. He looked it over and saw that although it was a little dented, it was otherwise intact.

"Thank you," he whispered, then unscrewed the cap and peered inside. Frozen water. Perfect. Maybe there were other items around. He kept walking, hunting for more lost treasure among the snow, and his thoughts resumed. Yes, he had been onboard the _Icarus_ , and they were responding to a distress call to…

Wintermute.

Yes, he definitely remembered that, because of the weird ass name. A little frozen ball of ice and rock near the edge of colonized space, Wintermute was a mining world. They had picked up an emergency distress call from the planet's UNSC Command, but there was no further information attached to the call, just that it was an emergency. Being the nearest vessel, they had dropped into slipspace and traveled for two days straight to get there. When they'd arrived in orbit, they'd reached out over the comm waves, but…

There was nothing. No communications. Just dead air, and the weather and something else, some kind of solar storm or something, had been interfering heavily with the sensors, so they could hardly pick up anything. And so, Greg had been part of the two Fireteams dispatched to Wintermute's UNSC Command to investigate what, precisely, was up. And then...what had happened? He remembered some kind of pulse of light or energy, and sparks everywhere along the interior of the Pelican. And-and what? The cargo ramp.

It had come loose, and, being one of the nearest to it, he'd gotten up to try and hit the emergency manual close, only they'd hit a powerful bump, and he'd fallen clean out the back of the Pelican. As his memories came to a painful end, Greg felt a renewed sense of awe for his current situation. That he had survived that was just nuts. No wonder he felt so awful. He stopped again as his boot came down on something hard and flat once more, only this time it was a lot smaller. Crouching, he dug in the snow and felt his heart leap in his chest. His lighter! His Zippo lighter! Now _that_ was quite the find. Standing back up, he realized that he'd come almost to the edge of the lake. He opened his lighter and flicked the wheel a few times.

The lighter sparked several times, and finally the wick caught, the flame strong and sure. With a sigh of relief, he snapped it closed and put it into the pocket with the canteen. For a few moments, he simply stood there at the shore of the half-frozen lake and stared out at it. Beneath a blue sky, a small flotilla of what he thought of as alien geese bobbed gently on the water. There were almost a dozen of them and they were oddly adorable. So, this place had life, evidently. Greg shook his head and turned away from the lake.

He began making his way back to the cave that was his temporary home. He gathered up more wood that had been blown loose during the storm that had ravaged the land last night, and once he returned to the back of the cave he restarted the fire. It felt a lot easier now that he had his lighter. Once it was going and he was fairly confident it wasn't going to go out, Greg placed his canteen upright in between two of the rocks. He didn't even have to wait for this water to boil, since he knew it was filtered and clean.

While that happened, he left the cave and took another look around. He had to get up higher, and the natural rise in the landscape his cave was burrowed into wasn't insurmountable. His joints aching and head throbbing, Greg climbed up the slope, pushing himself until he had reached the top. At least he wasn't cold anymore. The sunlight had the temperature up and there wasn't a breeze. As he ascended the crest in the rise, his view opened up tremendously. It didn't show a great amount of variety to him, though.

There was more blue sky dotted with the occasional cloud, a hell of a lot more trees, a lot more snow-covered landscape, and…

"Yes," Greg whispered.

A thin pall of smoke was rising into the air somewhere ahead of him. There was a good chance that was the crash site of his Pelican. Even if it wasn't, it probably was a sign of civilization. A cabin or even a campsite. What he wouldn't give to see another person right now. After staring at it for a few seconds more, he turned and made his way back down the slope. He headed into the cave and checked on his canteen. The exterior was certainly hot enough, but it probably wasn't fully melted yet. Well, more opportunity to take a seat and maybe gather up some more strength before the no doubt lengthy walk he had ahead of him.

As he waited for his water to finish melting, Greg found himself wondering if he'd been in worse situations than this. Probably. He'd been shot down behind enemy lines before. He'd faced overwhelming odds before. Then again, who hadn't at this point in the Human-Covenant War? He supposed the problem was that he didn't know how screwed he was. He had no idea where he was, if there were any hostiles around, how far he was from safety or help, or a hundred other potentially crucial factors.

He didn't know much. He was going to have to learn a lot, and fast.

Once the water was thawed, he dislodged it with his boot and then awkwardly kicked it out of the cave and into some snow, which immediately began to hiss and melt. He didn't have gloves and the thing had to be burning hot. No way he was going to deal with burns on top of everything else. While it cooled off, he stared out at the lake and the forest. He had a huge task ahead of him, and he could feel thoughts and concerns crowding in on him. But, drawing on years of practicing the act, he pushed them away, buried them for now.

Some of them would burn off in the ether, nothing more than immediate, in-the-moment anxieties. Those that were left would be the ones that mattered, and he'd examine those thoughts later, like during his walk across the field and the forest, because that would be a good time for extended contemplation sessions.

Right now though, he just had to get to that smoke, and then he'd figure out where to go and what to do from there.

As soon as the water was cool enough to drink, he made himself stop at a third of the canteen's reserve, then replaced it in his pocket, turned, and began the process of getting back up that incline. It was time to start walking.


	3. Chapter 03: Alone

He'd been walking for probably half an hour now.

At first, he had allowed all the cold, empty silence to wash over him, letting his mind finish settling completely before he started poking and prodding at his situation. He studied the snow, the trees, the sky, that thin pall of smoke that rose into the air. As the last vestiges of the crash and the night before fell away from him, or fell away inasmuch as they were going to, (he still ached all over in a number of ways), Greg settled into thinking about how he was going to do this. Or, first, what he needed to do. He made a list.

He needed supplies.

Food, clean water, medicine. God, a medkit would go a long way right now. Even half of one would help a lot. He had wounds that needed to be cleaned and bandaged, and painkillers would help a hell of a lot. And some water purification tablets, too. Then there were weapons. He had no idea what kind of hostiles he might be facing on this barren wasteland of a planet. Obviously, they had run into _some_ kind of problem.

Unless the distress call had been a false positive, a mistake.

But even then, although he was fuzzy on the details of last night, he did remember Sergeant Brink bringing up the fact that there was hostile native wildlife on Wintermute. So he had that to contend with. He didn't even have a combat knife or a single bullet to his name. Some survival gear would be great, too. A compass, a map, several other useful trinkets that could help a man stuck in a snowbound location.

Most of all though, he was kind of hoping for survivors.

Having even another person around would help a lot. He'd spent times in total isolation before, not dissimilar to this in some instances. Where his transport would get shot down and he was the only survivor, or he had to go off by himself because there were multiple things that needed doing and not enough people to do them. Being alone just sucked. Although, on the other hand, he felt a strange sense of...serenity was too strong a word, but there was a kind of elation to him right now. It seemed to bolster him as he walked into the forest.

Greg supposed it was because he had a rather linear mind.

He enjoyed have straightforward tasks put in front of him, and this was pretty straightforward. When he had something as simple as: walk to a crash site, put in front of him, (he thought it was the crash site), it became much easier to let all the extraneous stuff fall away. All the fears and worries and anxieties that naturally came after something as traumatic as falling out the back of a Pelican and being stranded, alone, and weaponless on an alien world began to drift away.

So, he'd get to the crash site and gather up whatever information and supplies he could find there. He had no idea where he was and he couldn't be sure, but Greg thought that they had fallen far short of their goal. There was supposed to be another half an hour or so in the flight to Wintermute's UNSC Command. So getting there was probably out of the question right now, but that was too far into the future anyway.

He needed to determine if anyone was still alive from his squad, or the second squad.

Besides his own personal safety and survival, that was probably his biggest goal at the moment. He'd gotten to know some of them kind of well over the past several months. It would be nice to know if they'd been killed or not.

It didn't take all that much longer to track the smoke to its origin.

"Crap," he whispered.

It was pretty ugly.

Greg stepped into the clearing that the Pelican had ultimately ended up in. Its nose was buried in a cluster of bent trees. The smoke was still bleeding slowly from one of the engines. He approached the rear of the dropship, unhappily studying what he found. There were corpses, frozen over. Three of them were still strapped into their chairs. He began identifying the dead. Sergeant Brink was there. And the other Corporal on the team, Bulder. They were both strapped into their chairs. And there was Miller, the poor kid was maybe six months out of boot. And Richards. And Harris, and Flint too. Half the squad were corpses right here.

To top it off, he found the pilot as well, still strapped into his chair.

Poor bastard.

As Greg began slowly and methodically searching through their pockets, he quickly realized that someone had to have walked away from the crash. Almost all of the pockets were empty. Well, good news that people were alive, not so good news for his chances of survival. There were, at most, five other survivors. That was probably the best news he'd gotten ever since waking up not dead and mostly intact an hour and a half ago.

But it wasn't a total loss, at least.

He managed to find some combat gloves and a black beanie that Bulder kept tucked away in one of his pockets.

"Sorry man, but I need this more than you do at this point," Greg muttered as he pulled it on over his stubble-stained head. He had to admit, being in a cold environment was making him regret buzzing his hair. He also managed to find a single combat knife, in its sheath, and attached that to his belt. There were just a few helmets left, but they were all busted in one way or another. He did, at least, take the opportunity to relieve the others of some of their armor pieces to replace his own. It felt weird and uncomfortable, maneuvering their stiff corpses to get the stuff off, but it wasn't like he had a choice. Or that he hadn't done this before.

He also managed to find a second canteen that was still full. He attached that to his belt, and, once he'd checked over the corpses, he began the process of poking through all the compartments and little cargo areas in the ship. The weapons locker was cleaned out, and a lot of them were open and empty. In fact, he was unhappy to find, almost all of them were totally cleaned out. But, right as he got into the cockpit and opened up the pilot's emergency cache, he was amply grateful to see that someone had either overlooked or thought to leave him a medical kit. Although neither of these two scenarios struck him as particularly good.

It was unlikely that he would survive falling out the back of a crashing Pelican, which meant that whoever it was might be unrealistically optimistic. Or, if they'd overlooked it, despite being so thorough elsewhere in their search, then maybe they were unable to focus. Neither were conducive to survival in such a desperate situation. Whatever, he was overthinking this. Right now, he cracked the medkit open and pawed through the trove.

And it was indeed a treasure trove.

Painkillers, gauze, antibiotics and antivirals, water purification tablets, bandages, a stitching package, disinfectant (he wasn't looking forward to using that), thermometer, and a half-dozen other things he might end up needing at some point. For a moment, he sat there and debated about whether or not he should take the time to tend to his wounds. Ultimately, he decided that first he would figure out where the nearest structure was, or if there was one, and if he could make it there, then that was where he would do it.

If not, he'd make himself strip down and do it here, as miserable as that was. The sun was out, but it was still cold. Regardless of his decision, however, he did pop three painkillers and wash them down with another swig from his canteen, (he'd have to hope that his body heat would melt the other one sooner rather than later), and then injected himself with a universal antiviral/antibiotic booster shot just to be safe.

The sheer act of doing this at least made him feel a bit better. With his search out of the way, (although he'd want to do another sweep of the perimeter before leaving), he came to stand in the cockpit. Greg stared at the body for a moment, then sighed and began to undo the straps. It took a few short moments of effort that ultimately culminated in him getting out the knife and cutting one of the straps. He sheathed the knife again and then hauled the poor pilot out of the chair, then sat him in the corner. When Greg had handled his first corpse during the first month of his career, he'd almost lost his lunch. The sheer notion that he was touching a dead body was enough to send him into a bit of a stomach-churning panic.

It wasn't even necessarily what it _was_ so much as what it _represented_. It was the end of everything, the ultimate culmination of life: death. He was holding what was, inasmuch as anything was, a vessel of the absence of life, a cessation to all things. No more thoughts, no more emotions, no more actions. No more intentional impact on the universe at large. In a way, a corpse was almost like a black hole. It was negative space, sucking in all the emotions that it could produce. How many tears were cried over corpses? How much pain, how much misery generated by the simple fact that someone had died and for no other reason?

It was a haunting, chilling thing to looked at, to handle, to face, because he knew that at some point he would become a corpse.

Greg didn't think he'd get past that, and in some ways he hadn't quite, but after this many years of nigh constant conflict, he'd seen thousands of corpses and handled probably hundreds. It had deadened him a bit, and necessarily, too. You couldn't lose your shit every time someone died around you if you were in a war: you'd die along with them, eventually. And so he finished setting the man in place, then took his seat and began the slow process of seeing if anything in the Pelican was working. Seconds bled by in the frozen solitude as he fruitlessly pushed buttons, flipped switches, and occasionally hammered on hardware with his fist.

The Pelican was dead.

It was like trying to start a Warthog that'd had the battery removed. It just wouldn't go, not even a little. He doubted the power in this thing was spent, which meant something else. Greg sat there, staring at the dead, cracked screen before him, considering the situation. He remembered that strange pulse, the way the Pelican had just died, and that solar thing that the pilots had been up in arms about. Abruptly, it all clicked together in his head.

A solar flare.

A big enough one would fry all sorts of electronics. Even in passing it would screw with them. If it was hit hard enough or dead on, the Pelican would instantly die. It was effectively a natural EMP attack. Most technology nowadays, especially military tech, was insulated against this to a certain degree, but there were a lot of different kinds of variables out there. Plus, it was kind of like a bulletproof vest. You could make it more and more solid, but even the best still wouldn't stand up to a tank round.

If the solar flare was powerful enough, it wouldn't matter how much protection they had. But if it was so powerful, why hadn't they seen it coming? And if it was so powerful, why was his flashlight still working? Not perfectly, but it still functioned. Maybe it wasn't just a solar flare, maybe it was some kind of weird spatial anomaly that they couldn't anticipate. Greg sighed. Whatever it was, it didn't really matter right now. How he'd gotten into this situation didn't matter nearly as much as how he was going to deal with it.

And right now, this wasn't working.

With a grunt of effort, he got back to his feet. He was still aching all over, but the aches were starting to dull at least, the painkillers going into effect. He walked back outside, into the snow and the sunshine, and then did a walk around the perimeter of the ship, investigating the clearing that had become its final resting place.

Those who had walked away had been surprisingly thorough.

He couldn't find anything.

And for a few moments, as he completed his circuit and came to stand behind the downed Pelican once more, Greg was stymied. Where to go from here? Besides 'not back the way he'd come', which might not even be correct, he had no idea. No clear indication of where the others had gone, or where civilization might be. If it was anywhere nearby. If only he could just have a bird's eye view of the area. If he could just get up higher.

Greg hesitated. Up higher…

He looked up.

Trees surrounded him. As he studied them, he spotted one that seemed to shoot up higher than the rest. Well, it was a start. And he'd taken dumber risks before. With this in mind, Greg tracked the tall tree down and began the slow process of climbing it. It was a surprisingly simple process, as branches were in all the right places, and before long, he had gotten to the top. Although his muscles were aching and his acrophobia was acting up, he had to admit that the view alone was worth it. It was simply stunning up here.

He could see for miles and miles.

Snow-capped trees extended for quite a ways, but he could also see large rises in the land, huge hills, what was almost a mountain, and...several structures! He could see what might be a small town miles and miles away, and a scattering of other structures along some basic paved roads that wound along the land. However, the most significant thing he caught sight of was a building within the region he was currently in. It was a place of wood and glass, positioned on a raised section of land. Whatever it was, it represented the nearest form of civilization to him.

And then there was the biggest revelation.

He was on an island.

And he seemed to be surrounded by huge sheets of ice, and beyond that, ocean. "Well...crap," he muttered. Although he couldn't see the entire island, the mountain near the center blocked his view, unless there was a peninsula behind it, this was an island. And unless there was a bridge back there, it was an isolated one.

So he had that to contend with, too.

The sun wasn't too high above the horizon yet, and Greg marked that in his head and used it as a temporary compass, then began getting back down from the tree.

He had his next goal.


	4. Chapter 04: Desperation

As he marched through the forest, freshly fallen snow crunching underfoot, Greg began running through a list of who might still be alive. Those who were not counted among the dead at the crash site. Besides him, the highest ranking member would now be Lance Corporal Serrano. He hoped she was alive. Based on their time serving together, he had come to know her as a Marine of confidence, competence, and calm. Well, most of the time. She seemed like she got pissed a little too easily off the battlefield, but he supposed there was a lot to get pissed off about nowadays. If anyone could walk out of this now, it would be her.

Then the other Lance, Masterson. He didn't know much about the man, other than that he was a quiet medic who performed admirably under fire. He kept to himself and always seemed to have a quiet precision to whatever he was doing. PFC Tordsson was kind of the opposite. The blonde rifleman was loud and always getting shouted at for his sloppy personal space. He never seemed capable of making his bed to the CO's satisfaction. He drank whenever the occasion arose, but Greg had never actually seen the man drunk.

Or maybe it was just that his sober persona was so similar to his drunk persona that he just couldn't tell the difference. Greg smiled when he thought of Tord. He was absolutely the kind of Marine you wanted at your side and at your back in a firefight. He never seemed afraid, but he wasn't stupidly reckless either. He'd fight his ass off and take a bullet for you if he had to. And then there was Private Wallace.

No one really liked Wallace, or what everyone had taken to calling him, probably because it pissed him off so much, Wally. He was a rich dick, had a rich and powerful daddy, and liked to think that being born into a family of wealth made him objectively superior to everyone who wasn't. He always had to brag, always had to boast, and was a terrible Marine. The only thing impressive about him was that these tendencies hadn't gotten stomped out of him during boot. That took a special kind of stupid to retain those qualities.

Greg had no doubt that if humanity wasn't so desperate and strapped for soldiers, he would've been tossed out awhile ago. Probably would've washed out of training, actually. He was argumentative, questioned orders, wasn't even that great of a shot. And finally there'd be Private Bell. He was the latest addition to the squad and just a sorry kid shoved through the system so that they could throw his ass into the galactic meat grinder as fast as possible. And it showed. He was brave, though, Greg had to give him that.

They'd shared two battles together, and he hadn't broken, hadn't fled, hadn't hid. He'd done his duty and managed to come out the other side alive and relatively intact both times. Greg saw some of himself in the kid, and figured that if he stayed alive long enough, Bell would probably manage to make a great Marine.

As Greg shifted around a tree, he caught sight of something up ahead and hesitated. Frowning, he moved a little closer, focusing on it. It looked like...a body, leaning against a tree. In standard UNSC armor. Well, crap. He picked back up the pace, closing the distance between them. There was a lot of blood on the tree, and if he looked under the snow around the corpse, he imagined he'd find even more. Reaching out, Greg gently brushed the snow from the body's face, and quickly realized who it was he was looking at.

Wally.

He had a grimace of pain etched into his frozen face that hurt to look at. An expression of pain and terror. His hands were clutched over his stomach. Greg frowned. There was a small part of him that wanted to make a joke, even in his own head, something about how all of Wally's influence and wealth and so-called power couldn't save him in the end, but another part of him quashed that immediately. He didn't wish the guy dead, especially not like this. This was just an ugly way to go. Good God. Reluctantly, Greg began searching his pockets.

As his hands pried open pockets, he tried to think about what could've happened. They would have left as a group from the Pelican, and maybe they had gone this way. They could have left Wally behind, he supposed, but he found that hard to believe. Maybe his injuries were too serious and he'd died on the way there? Except…

Greg frowned as he saw the way Wallace's head was leaning to the side, like he was hunched up, and there was a lot of blood there. He moved his head as much as he could manage, trying to get a better look at his neck, and saw that there was skin missing. There were...teeth marks. Something had taken a bite out of his neck. And maybe out of his stomach, too. Crap. That meant that yes, there was wildlife, and yes, it was active in his general vicinity. Greg hastily finished his search, and came away with one item of use: a single magazine for an M6G pistol. Great. If only he actually _had_ such a sidearm on him.

Well, hopefully he'd find one, and when he did, he'd have ammo.

Somewhere nearby, a twig snapped. Greg rose swiftly to his feet, his heart starting to thump harder in his chest, and he swept the area with his gaze. Probably nothing, but...maybe not. His combat and survival instincts started whispering to him, and he reoriented himself by glancing at the local sun's position, then set off. As he pressed on into the frozen forest, it quickly became obvious that he was no longer alone.

Something was following him. Stalking him.

He rested his hand briefly on the handle of the combat knife. Perhaps he was going to get to meet whatever had taken down Wallace. If he was lucky, he might manage to make it to the shelter before it decided to launch its attack on him. Or maybe he was just being paranoid. Behind him, something shifted slightly. No, he was definitely being hunted. Crap. Greg picked up the pace and went on for another fifteen or so seconds before he suddenly heard padding, rapid footfalls and a sharp growl. He stopped and spun around, pulling out the knife.

From between two trees, something emerged.

It looked like a wolf, only more lethal. It was made of lean muscle and covered in gray fur. It had a narrow, elongated skull that supported four crimson eyes. Behind it, a whipcord tail snapped back and forth. It issued a deep growl as it continued stalking towards him, teeth bared, head low. The creature stared at him with a malignant gaze. Greg stared back, trying to think of the best way to do this. It was not a good situation to be in.

He was going to have to kill it, because it obviously intended him harm, and it obviously wasn't going to just leave him alone. He tensed, waiting. If he was fast, he could get out of this one without getting hurt. Well, fast _and_ lucky. The beast kept stalking forward with a sinister grace, and then abruptly let out a loud bark as it launched itself towards him. Reacting on instinct, he brought his left arm up and cried out in pain as the creature bit down on it, sinking razor teeth into his flesh. He swung the blade around in a tight arc and plunged it into the beast's neck once, twice, three times, stabbing as hard and as fast as he could.

The thing's bite quickly began to loosen, and then it let go and tried to get away. He stabbed it again and then fell back, gasping now. It began to leave him, then slowed, then took a few staggering steps, and finally collapsed.

"Bastard," he whispered.

Gritting his teeth, Greg sat up and studied his wound. It burned horribly, but he couldn't actually see it, given the armor. How had it freaking bit through his armor? Well, now would be a good time to patch it up.

A long, low howl cut loose across the frigid air.

Or not.

Greg quickly got to his feet. This was really, really bad. One he could barely manage, but more? With no other real option, he turned and began sprinting away. Or really loping away, going as fast as he could manage with the snow and the trees and the pain wracking his body. There were more howls now, and he heard paws rapidly beating the ground somewhere nearby. Wasting his breath on some curses, Greg pushed himself harder, dodging between trees. He refused to have survived all this crap just to die to some goddamned alien wolves.

As they drew closer and closer to him, he unexpectedly burst through the treeline ahead of him and onto a paved road. Greg whipped his head around frantically. The road disappeared to his right in a sharp bend, offering nothing. The way to his left, though...a vehicle. A civilian car off to the side of the road. His arm still burning, he started sprinting. His boots pounded the frosted pavement as several growls and barks sounded behind him. He didn't look back, just kept running, pushing himself as hard as he possibly could.

Greg slammed into the side of the vehicle and his cold fingers fumbled with the handle. _Don't be locked._ The thought shot through his mind in a red flash. He pulled the handle and the door opened. He threw himself into the vehicle and slammed the door shut behind him. A second later, something slammed against the door and he twisted around. Four crimson eyes stared balefully through the window, zeroed on him. The creature was slobbering, growling fiercely, teeth bared. He waited to see what would happen.

Would the glass hold?

The creature barked viciously for several more seconds, then subsided into deep growling, then finally dropped back down. Greg let out his breath slowly, relief flooding through him. It quickly evaporated though as he realized his arm _hurt_. It was burning very badly. Gritting his teeth, he sheathed the knife, (amazed he hadn't dropped it or stabbed himself with it), then grabbed the medical kit and cracked it open. As he studied his arm, he was again shocked that the wolf thing had managed to bite through his armor there.

Carefully, he pulled the arm piece off and then rolled up the sleeve. Frowning, he saw far less blood than he had expected. In fact, he saw as he studied it closer, there were just a few small puncture wounds. Despite that, the skin around these wounds was an angry red and the burning was really getting to him. He grabbed a disinfectant wipe and swabbed at the wounds, which just made it hurt worse, then, after a moment's consideration, he injected some local anesthetic to numb it and give him some relief from the pain. Once that was done, he wrapped it, rolled down his sleeve, replaced his armor, and packed the kit back up.

Greg glanced out the window and saw the alien wolf prowling around out there, sniffing at the pavement, occasionally looking at him. He took a look in the other directions and saw another two of the gray things padding around, circling the vehicle. He sighed and considered his options. Realistically, he couldn't leave until they were gone. And then it was just a question of how patient they were. He couldn't afford to wait here forever. Not even for very long, really. Because it was cold outside, and he was beginning to suspect that he might have been poisoned by that bite. And he didn't know what kind of timeline it had.

So for now, he decided to check out the car.

It was activated via thumbprint, so he wasn't firing it up that way, but there were emergency overrides. Reaching under the dash, he found and pulled a panel. Normally, activating the car this way would immediately alert the authorities, either because it was an emergency or because someone was trying to steal the vehicle. Honestly, right now, that would be a welcome development. But as he tried to activate the vehicle through auxiliary means, he couldn't get it going. It made no noise, meaning it was totally fried, like the Pelican.

With a sigh, he abandoned his efforts and instead focused on what was actually in the car. He checked the backseat, finding it empty, then started feeling under his seat, and then the passenger's seat. Nothing but trash. It wasn't exactly easy to poke around while wearing a full set of armor. He opened up the glove compartment and saw a candy bar still in its wrapper. Well, whoever owned this car was clearly gone. He snagged the candy bar and peeled the wrapper away, then started eating it. The chocolate and peanut butter bar tasted simply amazing. Greg got through it in maybe ten seconds. As he finished it off, he felt regret.

Up until now, his hunger had largely been forgotten or put off, especially with that chase. But now that he'd actually eaten something, his stomach remembered that it hadn't had anything to eat for quite awhile now and began complaining. Greg sighed and drank from his canteen. He looked out the window.

The alien wolves were still there.

He supposed there was nothing to do for now but wait.


	5. Chapter 05: Signs of Life

Well, it looked about as good as it was going to, he supposed.

Greg carefully looked out of each window around him, doing a complete three sixty scope of his surrounding environment, and decided that he'd waited long enough. It had been close to an hour in the car, and although he appreciated the chance to get his breath back and rest his aching body, his arm was already starting to hurt again. He had to keep resisting the urge to pry off the armor, roll up the sleeve, and take another look. Normally he was good at stuff like willpower, or at least decent at it, he felt, but this was his body he was talking about.

He could be dying.

There were no more of the alien wolf things around in any direction. Although it was more than possible that they had simply gone into hiding among the trees to either side of the road he now found himself on, Greg knew that his time was up regardless. He needed to get to that building. He needed to keep moving forward. With this in mind, he got out the knife and opened up the door. Nothing happened.

Cold air seeped into the car.

Greg got up, groaned softly as he felt his joints pop, his lower back ache. Still nothing happened. He closed the door and started walking. Still, he was alone. He let out a slow sigh of relief and replaced the knife after about a dozen paces. They were gone, or far enough away to count, but that might not keep. He needed to take advantage of this situation while he could. Hoping for the best, he set a brisk pace, walking down the road through the morning sun. His breath foamed on the air as he walked. All in all, this was a lot easier than marching through the woods, kicking his way through the snow and having to go around trees.

His arm pulsed painfully in time with his heartbeat.

He put that out of his head, instead focusing on studying his surroundings and letting his mind wander just a bit. He was thinking of his time aboard the _Icarus_. Although three months might not seem like that long of a time to people who lived more stationary, less action-prone lives, it could feel like three years when you were flitting about the galaxy, fighting firefights on a dozen different planets. He'd gotten tossed onboard one day after becoming the sole survivor of a squad that he'd gotten thrown into only a few weeks previous to replace one of their Corporals. The fight had been on a world he didn't remember the name of, a place of grasslands, mountains, and oceans. It had ended up a place of glass after the Covenant had had their way with it.

It had honestly been a miracle that he had made it to the extraction point, let alone that he'd made it there carrying the only other survivor of his Fireteam. But although he'd gotten his fellow Marine to the Pelican, and they'd managed to make it up into the belly of a UNSC warship right before it had dropped into slipspace and disappeared into a blazing trail across the cosmos, that poor son of a bitch had died on the table while they'd been trying to save him, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

That ship had been the _Icarus_ , and after he'd given his after action report and gotten shuffled through the system again, he discovered that he didn't have to go anywhere for his transfer: Sergeant Brink had been onboard that Pelican he'd dragged the dying man aboard, and had been following his status updates over the radio while he'd been trying to flee the dying world. Evidently, Greg's struggle for survival had impressed the Sergeant, and since they had also lost a few members of their own squad in that battle, he'd gotten slotted in.

And now Brink was dead, along with half the squad.

Greg had settled into the routine of life aboard the _Icarus_ pretty easily after that, but not because he considered himself any more adaptable than the average warrior, nor because he made friends easily. He didn't, actually. But because that was how life in the Marines was. Didn't matter if you were in outer space, on Earth, or any one of a hundred different unique environments spread out across the galaxy: you still had the same schedule and made your bed the same way. It was easy to fall back into routine in a brand new environment.

There was something comforting about that.

Greg wondered, abruptly, if the _Icarus_ was even still in orbit. If that spacial interference had caught it the same way it had caught his Pelican, then it was possible that the huge ship had suffered the same fate. It was just as possible that it was still in orbit, though. Greg put it out of his head. Another worry for another time. There was nothing he could do about it. Up ahead, there was a turnoff onto another road, approximately where his mystery structure should be located. Picking up the pace, his arm hurting more than ever now, he reached the turn and made it. Sure enough, he spied a parking lot and a wooden staircase leading up to the structure, which was built onto a rise of land, no doubt giving it a decent view of the area.

It looked official, and he was figuring, (hoping really), that it was some kind of headquarters for whoever might be in charge of the upkeep of this area, or maybe some kind of emergency supply building. There were no cars in the parking lot. Still no signs of life, either. Greg came to the stairs and walked briskly up them, feeling a great relief at having finally reached this place. It felt like he'd been walking for days.

Reaching the apex of the stairway, Greg peered in through the frosty glass, seeing nothing and no one moving around inside. He took a moment to scan the immediate area, looking back the way he'd come. He could just barely make out the thin pillar of smoke, now little more than a barely cohesive wisp, back from whence he'd come. It seemed very far away now. There was nothing else that was obvious, just trees and more trees. He turned around and walked in through the front door, which had been left ajar.

As he stepped in, closing the door behind him, appreciating the noticeable jump in warmth in the sun-lit interior, he scanned the area and his eyes stopped immediately as they found yet another corpse. Another corpse that he recognized. There was a cot tucked away in one corner of the room, and upon it lay the dead body that had once been PFC Tordsson. Greg stared in mute disbelief. Slowly, he crossed the room.

There were some Marines, some men and women, who you couldn't picture dead.

Even now, after over half a decade of warfare and slaughter, after seeing hundreds of people die, after seeing dozens of friends expire in so many different ways, he still ran into these individuals. And Tordsson was one of them. As he approached the dead body, looking surprisingly peaceful, almost like he was sleeping, (he couldn't mistake it for slumber though, there was simply too much blood under and seeped into the cot), Greg thought of the first time he'd met the man. It had been perhaps a day into his actual induction into the squad.

They'd been at the shipboard gym, and Greg had been working out, and he'd sensed someone approaching him. Turning, he'd found himself looking into the face of a man with blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a goofy grin. Tord, as he'd introduced himself, (although sometimes they called him Turd when they were ragging on him, which never seemed to bother him in the slightest), had asked if Greg wouldn't mind spotting him.

As simple as that a friendship had begun.

Tord was immensely open and seemed to have an endless capacity for social activity. He was always down to hang out, always down to hit the gym, to catch a movie in the rec room, shoot a game of pool, play a game of cards, whatever. He seemed like the kind of person who was very socially malleable, either able or simply willing to do whatever it was other people wanted to do. He seemed simply happy to be spending time with people and making them happy. He'd had a lot of jokes, and a lot of stories.

He was probably the closest thing to a good friend Greg had had onboard the _Icarus_.

And now he was dead. There was a bloody patch of gauze over his stomach, and judging by the amount of blood and the fact that he was dead, Greg thought that his liver might have been pierced during the crash. He imagined Serrano and the others carrying him through the woods, doing everything they could to keep him alive, to stop the bleeding, and the look of...horror, resignation, fury?...that must have come onto their faces when either they had realized he was a dead man, or he had simply become one.

Death could sneak up on you like that.

He'd seen too many lives ended in the middle of a sentence. One minute you were talking with someone as you tried desperately to stop the bleeding, and abruptly they stopped speaking, or you asked a question and they didn't respond, and you'd glance up and they were just gone. It happened in a split second, and you were left crouched there over a corpse with blood all over your hands and failure filling your brain like a poison.

Greg's arm pulsed angrily in hot agony and he turned away from Tord.

He needed to perform a search of the area. He set to work. The seconds bled slowly into minutes as he hunted through what the structure had to offer. It was basically a ranger's station, indeed a headquarters for those whose job it was to maintain the area, offer protection and medical services for anyone who happened to be around. Which would mean that there would be other buildings around, a campground and some private rental cabins maybe. Perhaps a restaurant. Greg had been to a similar setup before in his life. Hopefully this was the case.

That meant more buildings, more supplies, more chances of survivors.

He searched a trio of desks scattered across the main room, hunting through all the drawers. He searched behind a front counter, back in a little closed-off section that housed an emergency medical area and a small employee lounge. He searched a single bathroom. And although it was obvious that someone had been through this area, there were still a few vital pieces of supplies left, and some information. The very first thing he found that genuinely caught his eye was a pamphlet on the region. He'd been hoping for something like this.

He opened it up and skipped to the wildlife section. The first thing he saw was a photograph of the alien wolf he'd seen, fought, and fled from. It was called a varg, and its bite was indeed poisonous. And evidently, you had approximately four hours after the initial bite to seek treatment. After that it became almost universally fatal. By Greg's count it had been about half that time, which was fine, unless he didn't find some of the damned antidote. After that, he began searching a bit more frantically. Everything else could wait.

He needed that damned medicine.

The suspense was finally cut a few moments later as he found an emergency medical kit stashed in one of the cabinets of the little infirmary area. He tore it open, hunting for the antidote, and found a pair of injections.

"Thank you," he whispered softly to no one in particular as he read the instructions. All he had to do was inject one full dose at the site of the bite. Easy enough. Greg removed his armor and rolled his sleeve up again. He winced at what he saw. The redness had spread even further, and was clearly following his veins. Without hesitation, he pulled the tip from the needle, held it up, flicked it a few times, squeezed a tiny bit out of the top to ensure he didn't put an air bubble in his veins, given that that could kill him, and then he carefully inserted the needle. He pulled the plunger back, getting some blood in the liquid, ensuring he was in a vein. Then he injected the antivenom. It hurt going in, but he ignored the pain and took a moment to squeeze a fist several times, trying to get the stuff going through his system. He tossed away the needle and then, after a bit, replaced the sleeve and armor. His arm still hurt like hell, so he was just going to have to trust that it was working.

With that out of the way, he transferred the contents of his partially used medical kit to the new one, and finished his search of the area. At the end of it, (which ended with him searching Tord's body and finding nothing of use), he took a seat in the lounge and looked over the supplies he'd managed to gather up during his investigation. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. Besides the kit and the spare antidote, he'd found that pamphlet, some food, and a trio of emergency flares. Deciding to give the antidote time to work, Greg sorted through his meal.

He'd managed to find two bags of chips, a can of beans, a can of peaches, half a PB&J, and three bottles of water. He placed the cans in his bigger pockets for later, since they were the most portable and he had no idea how long it might be until he found more food, then set in on eating the rest. While he ate, he read. Apparently, besides the varg, he had a few other local nasties to look forward to. There was a nightwalker, which looked kind of like a panther, only they had glowing blue eyes, and they were nocturnal, and very deadly.

Great.

There was also the drub, which looked akin to Earth's bears. Judging from the photograph, it had to be pretty big and very strong. It had nasty looking claws and a massive maw. And finally, there was the volar. Big, ugly bird things with huge talons and beaks, and massive wingspans. They were, like the other creatures, aggressive and hostile. What a fantastic place he had crash-landed on. After he finished his meal, (which didn't last nearly long enough), and drained one of the bottles of purified water, he transferred the other two to his canteens, topping them off, and continued looking through the pamphlet.

There was one more piece of information he came across. It came with a map, not of the island, unfortunately, but of the local area. He'd been right: there were two places worth checking out. A campground, and a little cluster of private cabins. They were both within decent walking distance, just farther on down the road. It wasn't a lot to go on, but it at least gave him a simple and straightforward next objective.

There was a good chance the others had gone that way.

He had to get there, search the area, find supplies, find the others, and determine where to go next. With these mission parameters in mind, Greg got to his feet, made sure everything was still on him and he hadn't left anything behind, then paid his respects to Tord and walked out of the building, back out into the hungering cold.


	6. Chapter 06: Derelict

Despite the cold, despite the dead bodies he'd found so far, despite the pain he was in...Greg actually felt kind of good. Not physically, more mentally. His goal was clearer than ever, and there was decent evidence that at least _someone_ was still alive. Although, as he walked along the road, the frost on it glittering in the early morning sun like diamonds, he did find himself wondering about the second Pelican. There had been two when they'd initially come down, where was the second Fireteam? Was it possible that the interference that had hit his own ship had missed theirs? Possible, he decided, but highly unlikely.

So where had they gone down?

Technically, there were three other potential survivors from his own squad. Serrano, Bell, and Masterson. And there was a potential baker's dozen other survivors from the second squad. Though that also seemed unlikely. While he pondered this, he found his thoughts slipping to Masterson. He'd apparently been in the squad the longest after Brink, almost a year. A lifetime at this point. Masterson was something of an enigma to Greg. There had been air of quiet serenity about him, of calmness. He was a little like a monk.

Or how Greg imagined a monk might be. A warrior monk.

Well, a doctor warrior monk, technically speaking.

Masterson didn't have much to say, just the occasional comment or, if anyone had a question for him, an answer. He almost never hesitated when he answered, and his knowledge of medicine seemed encyclopedic. When the situation called for it, he was soothing. He had an excellent bedside manner, which had put Greg off a little. He'd initially mistaken Masterson's quiet demeanor for social discomfort, but his social skills were nearly as well developed as his medical ones. During the few extended conversations they'd had, Masterson had carried his end of the exchange on without a problem and seemingly with great joy.

Now that he thought about it, really thought about, here, alone, walking down this nearly silent frozen road, Greg thought he might finally have figured out what made Masterson tick. And it was nothing. Okay, maybe that wasn't precisely accurate. It was more what _didn't_ make him tick. If he had to guess, Greg would say that Masterson had nothing to prove. That was genuinely rare. He couldn't really think of anyone else he'd met who had nothing to prove. Everyone had something to prove, it seemed.

Mostly how tough they were.

Greg had sought to remove that aspect of himself as much as possible, pride along with it. Pride and proving yourself...got in the way. It made you act irrational, prevented you from completing tasks sometimes. He personally didn't have a whole lot to prove to anyone anymore. He was strong, he was fairly fast, pretty decent in a fight, great in a firefight, he had a lot of endurance, was smart enough to get by. Clearly he was good at survival, or at least very lucky. He'd have to be to have survived all the crap he'd been through so far.

There was another car up ahead, he saw as he came around a bend in the road.

That sparked off a new thought as he picked up the pace. What had happened here? It was something he kept coming back to. There had probably been some kind of evacuation of the island, but what had made people just abandon their vehicles? And, furthermore, how many were dead on the island? God, on the planet? He didn't think that whatever it was was a widespread problem, but after all he'd seen, it was hard not to worst-case-scenario everything he came across. Greg tried to put that from his mind as he approached the car.

Obviously, someone had been by already.

The trunk was pried open and one of the doors had been left ajar. He spent a few minutes rummaging around through it. The glove compartment was empty and he found a few empty wrappers from a pair of candy bars and a bag of chips. Someone had definitely been here. Maybe even the survivors from his squad. Had they faced the vargs? Or any of the other nasty wildlife this place had to offer? Probably.

The car searched, Greg walked on.

As he approached the road that led to both the campgrounds and, farther on, the private cabins, he came across an interesting sign.

It read: **TOWN OF MILTON. 10 mi.**

The small town he'd seen. It was called Milton, evidently. Not a great name, but they couldn't all be great. Well, at least he had his next destination after this. The road that led to the campgrounds and beyond was less well maintained than the primary road, the pavement cracked and broken, with obvious potholes in some places. He continually scanned the frosted treelines to either side of him as he walked on, hunting for signs of vargs or other things. He glanced up, too, wary of whatever the hell volar were.

But the skies were clear.

Well, almost clear. He saw a heavy cluster of clouds on the horizon, dark gray and no doubt heavy with snow. This seemed like the kind of place that got hit with snowstorms often. From what he remembered of last night, he really didn't want to get caught in one of those. He'd visited snowy or icebound planets before, and knew how easy it was to die in a snowstorm. If he got caught in a whiteout, he could walk around in a circle for hours looking for shelter that might be fifty feet away. He suddenly wondered how they'd managed to make it to shelter from the Pelican last night. Maybe they'd gone before the storm had gotten there.

He had no idea how long he'd been out, and snowstorms could appear very suddenly.

There was the first campsite. It wasn't very impressive. In fact, he saw as he stepped onto the trail leading to it and got a better view of it...it was actually empty. Greg sighed and kept walking. Well, he _did_ find it hard to imagine many people coming here for recreational purposes. Who the hell would camp in a freaking place like this? He supposed there were survival junkies who went looking for tough situations to survive in, or maybe looking for that balance of _appearing_ to be a tough place to survive while really being not all that far from safety.

He supposed this place was dangerous enough, especially with the wildlife. But Greg just couldn't understand the desire. Maybe it was just because he had spent so much of the last six years of his life dealing with high stress, dangerous, toxic, or otherwise lethal environments and trying to survive in them. He often didn't have a choice. His idea of a vacation was a goddamned island in the sun with a beach, no hostile wildlife of any kind, and one attractive woman. Preferably another Marine, since he now seemed incapable of connecting, even sexually, with anyone who _wasn't_ a warrior. Although maybe that was telling of his future.

Maybe, because he'd spent so long in the fires of madness and extreme environments, he'd find himself looking for it again just to feel like he was doing something worthwhile. Of course, Greg had a very difficult time realistically imagining _not_ being locked in perpetual warfare with the Covenant. He'd either die or...well, yeah. He'd probably die before this war was over. This was the kind of war that, even if they won, would probably take another century. Greg would fight this war for the rest of his life, be that years or decades.

Or months.

Then again, Earth was being assaulted right now, so it was getting harder and harder to imagine any kind of scenario where humanity survived, let alone emerged victorious. He still had no idea why the Covenant wanted them dead.

These were the thoughts that drifted through Greg's mind as he searched the campsites he came across. The first four were totally empty, void of anything save a wooden table and a little frost-covered grill that the park provided. The fifth site had some remains of the previous occupants, mostly just trash. Maybe someone had been here after the event had happened and had since moved on. How many people were left alive on this island? He really needed to find them, even outside of his own squad, given it was his sworn duty and moral obligation to help civilians. The sixth site had an actual tent, but it was shredded.

There was frozen blood on the pair of sleeping bags inside, and a scattering of empty foot containers that looked like vargs had been through. God. He performed a quick search and found nothing he could use to help himself, then left the site. As he progressed on, he came to another little road leading to an open area hosting an orbit of cabins. Greg hesitated, frowning. Had he already come to the private cabins? No, he surmised finally, these weren't private. They were probably lower rent cabins you had to share with other people. Greg took a moment to survey the area, making sure he wasn't missing anything.

There were three buildings, one small, one medium, one large, each on its own side of the lot. There was a little gravel parking row to his right along the road, a big bonfire pit in the center of the lot, some picnic tables and benches scattered around, and farther on, he could see a frozen pond in between two of the cabins. No signs of life, though the door to the big cabin was open. He decided to start there and struck off towards it.

Greg settled into search mode as he entered the cabin. He moved slowly through a living room, dining room, kitchen, two bathrooms, and four different bedrooms. The minutes passed by in cold silence. As he searched, he was extremely grateful to notice that the pain in his arm was almost completely gone. The burning had receded, and all that was left was a dull ache and the sting of the actual bites themselves. And he could deal with that. Of course, this left him with a bigger concern: future varg poison.

He had one shot of antidote left, and who knew how many vargs out there.

They were going to be top on his priority list, and he imagined they would be rare.

The main cabin had been tossed, he learned, and thoroughly enough that he didn't think it was just his missing squadmates that had been through. The kitchen was empty, cleared out of anything that hadn't had the chance to spoil. He tried the faucets and found the pipes frozen. The medium sized cabin, which just sported a kitchen/dining room area, a bathroom, and a pair of bedrooms, was equally drained of any potential resources. Though so it shouldn't be a complete waste, he did take the opportunity to go to the bathroom.

In the final cabin, he made a discovery.

Greg stepped into the almost single room structure, sweeping a kitchen area and a bedroom section with his gaze, and intended to find _something_ here. There had to be something. This couldn't be a complete waste. Although he knew that wasn't true at all. There didn't _have_ to be anything at all, because that wasn't the way the universe worked. He set to work, methodically going through the most obvious areas first: the kitchen drawers and cabinets, the fridge, the oven, the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and under the sink, the drawers of a small desk tucked away into one corner. Then he checked under the bed, behind the toilet, behind or beneath any of the furniture in the area, and time and again he was stymied.

There was just nothing.

After twenty minutes of exhaustive hunting, Greg stood in the center of the cabin, doing a slow three sixty, looking up and down and everywhere. He was positive he had missed something, or maybe that was just hope.

Or stubbornness.

And then he saw it: a square of wood cut from the rest in the upper right corner of the kitchen area. A little trapdoor. Grinning fiercely, he shoved the armchair beneath it, stepped up, and pushed the trapdoor up. It flipped open. He pulled out his flashlight and then, balancing as best he could on the back of the armchair, he poked his head up through the square hole. Shining his light around, he scoped the little attic area out.

Nothing up there but dust, and…

"Holy crap," he whispered.

Jackpot. Motherlode.

There was a civilian issue ten gauge shotgun with a dusty gray barrel and a box of shells next to it. An 'in case of emergency' stash, he imagined. Well, this was definitely an emergency. He grabbed the shotgun and the box, then got down and marched over to the kitchen counter. Setting the shells down, he checked over the shotgun. It hadn't been used in awhile, but it did look to be in good condition at least. It was empty. He opened up the box, finding a dozen fat red shells inside. He began feeding them into the gun one by one until he'd gotten six in there. After pocking the remaining six shells, he aimed the shotgun, tucking it into his shoulder.

It seemed solid, and would _definitely_ be useful against the damned varg.

Feeling way better and more satisfied about his prolonged search, Greg stepped back out into the chilled sunshine.

Something shifted, then growled, to his right.

He swung around, raising the shotgun, and felt his confidence drop right out from beneath him. Maybe ten feet away, on the road he'd come in on, was a giant creature. A drub. An alien bear. The mammoth beast was staring right at him, down on all fours, gray fur bristling. It let out a loud warning growl.

"Oh...crap," he whispered.

The drub began to come for him.

Greg snapped the shotgun up and tucked it into his shoulder once more, holding it good and tight as he quickly zeroed his sights on the face of the immense creature. Like the varg, it sported four red eyes, all of them staring balefully at him as it roared and charged him. He was probably only going to get one chance at this…

Greg waited until it was nearly upon him, then squeezed the trigger.

There was a deafening blast and the alien bear's head half-disappeared in a plume of dark gore. He cried out in shock and disgust as a wave of its blood and pulverized brain matter splashed his armor and uniform, and then leaped to the side since its body was still being carried forward by momentum. He narrowly avoided being crushed under its bulk, tripped, and cried out again in pain as he hit the dirt and gravel ground, his abused body shouting its own agony to him. He groaned as he slowly got back to his feet, then turned to look at the creature.

It was freaking huge.

If it stood straight up on its hind legs, it would probably be ten or even twelve feet tall. It was bulky with muscle and fat. This thing would have murdered him without hesitation or even difficulty. That had been a _lucky_ shot. Well, not _all_ luck, but an appreciable amount. Greg let his breath out in a long, slow sigh of relief and then fished another shell out of his pocket and slid it into the weapon. He looked up and around.

He was alone again.

Greg set off towards the private cabins, intent on finishing his sweep of the area.


	7. Chapter 07: Abandoned

The shotgun was a deeply reassuring weight in his grasp.

It had come with a shoulder strap, but he held it for the first few minutes of the walk towards his last stop before leaving this area. Partially out of a paranoia born of his encounter with the drub, but mainly out of the simple but profound comfort holding a gun gave him. He'd come to rely on them so much in his day-to-day life, come to view them in the same way that some people viewed pets. Dog might be man's best friend, but right now this shotgun was his. He'd be a corpse without it. But finally, he slung it as pragmatism overtook emotion.

Walking along that gravel road, his mind kept turning over.

He thought of the things he'd seen so far, of the dead bodies he'd discovered, of what may yet lie ahead. And then he thought about Serrano. She was probably the one he knew the least about, when he actually thought about it. Isabella Serrano, or as she liked to go by, Izzy, (though only to her friends, and those were rare), was a Lance Corporal and their best technician. She was maybe five and a half feet tall, made of compact muscle, and she packed a hell of a punch. More recently, she'd talked him into sparring a few times, though he couldn't quite figure out why, and _damn_ did she have a mean right hook.

She was _fast_ too.

But besides these things, he didn't actually know anything about her, and she'd been around a little longer than he had on the squad. She was very reserved, and from what he could tell, slow to trust. She hardly gave up anything about herself, and he saw her alone more often than not. Working out, reading, having meals, fixing something. Although like the sudden sparring offers, they had had a few lengthier conversations just recently. What did that mean? Tord had grinned and elbowed him a few times, saying that she liked him.

He had severe doubts about that.

He had a thing for her, to be sure, but who wouldn't? She was competent, she was capable, she was obviously attractive, but if she had any interest in anyone around, it wasn't him. And it was probably for the best, anyway. Greg had never been particularly good with relationships, but in a way, that had worked out to be in his favor as the war had gone on. People had a habit of either dying or leaving abruptly as they got rotated out elsewhere. Long relationships were not only against protocol, but basically out.

There wasn't really anything wrong with trysts or friends with benefits though.

But even then, he didn't do spectacularly. He'd had exactly one sexual encounter since coming to the _Icarus_. It was with a very attractive, skinny little brunette technician that was part of the bridge crew who'd come after him suddenly and intensely. And, well, Greg knew that he was nothing if not easy, and she had her own private quarters, so they'd slept together and it had been great. After that, she'd kind of just cut off contact with him. He'd been a little frustrated, mainly just because he'd wanted to know if he'd done something wrong.

But he found out later that evidently this was something she did. He'd basically been hunted, another name checked off her list of guys she wanted to jump. And after that, he'd been okay with it. He didn't mind being on a list like that, and he figured it was as good a reason as any for a one night stand. It had resulted in good sex, so that was nice. But mostly he'd just been too sour to go looking for anyone ever since hearing about Earth.

That was eating him alive.

Greg came out of his mind abruptly as he came around a bend and saw the first private cabin sitting at the edge of a driveway of gravel. No car in that driveway, but the front door was open. He marched up to the cabin and walked inside. Definitely a private cabin. Fancier. The material it was made out of looked smoother, higher quality. There was a big, flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, an L of soft sofa across from it with a polished glass-top coffee table nearby. Greg tried the lights, but nothing happened.

There was evidence of someone having been through here as well. He took his time though, performing a methodical search. Nothing in the living room, and the kitchen had been almost totally cleaned out. Pipes were frozen here, too. They probably were everywhere. He found a box of breakfast bars in the back of a cabinet and stuffed the four he found in his pockets, then sighed. He needed a backpack, this was getting annoying. He only had so many pockets. After clearing the kitchen, he checked out a master bedroom and bathroom, and found nothing worthwhile. He almost left after that, but then stopped as he noticed a table through the back window. Greg headed back out into the cold and marched around back.

And he was glad he did.

There was a backpack abandoned on the ground, half buried in snow, beside the table. He picked it up and shook the snow from it, then poked around inside. Nothing within, but it was a definitely big step up. He took the opportunity to empty some of his pockets, transferring his food and water and medical kit to the pack, then he shrugged into it. This was a definite improvement, a good find. Feeling a bit better, Greg returned to the road and set off again. He let his mind drift and idle as he came to the second cabin and searched it over, finding nothing more of value among the cabinets and drawers and hiding places.

As he approached the third cabin, he heard a growl to his right.

Greg stopped in the middle of the gravel road, his hands finding the shotgun immediately as he began hunting the treeline for the varg that he'd heard. He was almost positive it was a varg. Sure enough, a few seconds later, a figure cast in ugly gray fur with four big red eyes slunk out of the treeline, head low, teeth bared.

"I'm ready for you this time," Greg growled, shotgun tucked into his shoulder, barrel following the slow progress of the nasty creature. It growled back and then started barking viciously, coming straight for him. He tracked it and then squeezed the trigger at just the right moment. The effect was devastating. The creature's body was thrown violently off course as everything above the base of its neck was shredded into so much pulped, free-flying gore. The body hit the ground and rolled a few times, then came to a stop.

Greg's face twisted in disgust as the smell of freshly spilled alien wolf blood hit him in the cold air, then he shifted aim as another two of them came out of the treeline. He fired again, clipping a second beast's skull and killing it, ripping away part of its head in a spray of blood, bone fragments, and brain matter, and then had to dodge to the side as the final varg closed the gap between them in a terrifying burst of speed and dexterity. It was a near miss, too, but he managed to twist around, tracking it with the shotgun, and fire.

He punched a fist-sized hole in its chest and sent it down to the ground like its brethren. Breathing more heavily now, Greg scanned the area once more for hostiles, but found himself alone. Reaching into his pocket, he fed another three shells into the shotgun and then finished his trek up to the third private cabin. He hesitated as he saw that not only was the front door open, there was a bloody handprint on it, and the knob was bloody as well. It was old blood, frozen over, so whoever it was would either not be there (hopefully) or was a stiff corpse by now (most likely). Greg steeled himself, then entered the cabin.

Time to find out which.

He learned the truth almost as soon as he stepped foot into the cabin. The living room was a mess: the couch shredded, TV smashed, trash and random items littering the floor. And there, in the middle of it all with his throat ripped out in a smear of frozen blood, was Lance Corporal Masterson. Greg stood there for a few moments, staring in mute misery. Slowly, he reached out and closed the door behind him, then he crossed the room and crouched by Masterson's corpse. Even in death, the medic looked strangely calm, peaceful almost.

He hadn't gone out with a smile on his face, but he didn't look like he was in agony at least. Greg wondered if that was shock or willpower or just not being afraid of the end. He wondered how to get there, or if anyone truly had. Not being afraid of death. He supposed there were those that welcomed it under the right circumstances, but that was more of a desire, a no doubt overwhelming desire, to escape a current bad situation. He had certainly risked his life often enough to be familiar with death. Hell, he'd almost died probably half a dozen times so far since coming to this miserable place. But it wasn't like he _wanted_ to die, he wasn't even okay with dying. He just...didn't think about it, really. Mainly, he did his job and tried to survive.

Greg began the unsavory task of searching the dead man's pockets. In the end, he came up with nothing, indicating that _someone_ must have been by. Hopefully it was his squad. At this point, all that would be left were Serrano and Bell. Greg felt an ugly combination of despair and panic wanting to poison his mind, to rush him and make him give into his emotions. For a reason he had never fully comprehended, there was something appealing about that. About saying _screw it_ and just flipping out. But right now it would serve no purpose.

He forced himself to stand up, and then intentionally began to hunt through the cabin. Getting things done would help calm his nerves. But it felt like it had all fallen apart so fast. Or that it had all come to pieces when he wasn't looking, when he wasn't even conscious, everything here happening without his input. But that was the nature of the universe, he supposed. It ticked along with or without you. If only he had been here…

Well, if he'd been here, maybe he'd be dead too.

If he hadn't fallen out the back of that Pelican and made a miracle landing and barely made it to that cave to start a fire and last through the night, maybe he would have died in the crash or to the vargs afterward. That was the problem with maybes. They were too uncertain, took up too much time. Best not to think about them. Despite not finding anything beyond the fact that (hopefully) Serrano and Bell had done a thorough job before him, Greg felt a little better as he stepped back out into the crisp morning sunshine.

He got back onto the gravel road, heading for the last private cabin, grateful to be wrapping up this particular leg of the journey. It seemed obvious that his theoretical fellow teammates had moved on, and although he'd found some crucial supplies and learned a few things, like a lot of confirmed KIAs and about varg poison, he couldn't help but feel that he was wasting time here. He would be a lot more effective at survival if he had even one other person with him, especially if that person was a trained professional like himself.

There were things he couldn't do alone, at least not safely, like sleep. And having someone just to watch his back would go a very long way towards helping out. He kept walking, eager to be free of this region of the island, to move on and find other people, more supplies, some kind of clue as to the state of this world, and at last came to the fourth cabin. And as he stood at the head of the driveway leading up to it, he honestly didn't know how to feel.

It had been burned down to the ground.

On the one hand, it saved him the trouble of searching it. On the other, who knew what kind of resources might've been in there. And he genuinely couldn't decide if it was a fitting end to his search, or an omen of terrible things to come.

In the end, he just turned around and began retracing his steps back to the main road.


	8. Chapter 08: The Long Walk

Greg stood at a crossroads, (sort of), and found that he needed to make a decision.

The two choices were: keep going towards the town, or start walking towards the observatory that he now had a clear path to. He'd been walking for about half an hour now, making what he thought was decent time, under the circumstances, and it had been a pretty okay thirty minutes, all things considered. Nothing had tried to kill him, and he hadn't sustained any further injuries. Given how the past day had gone, this was a fantastic run of luck. But as he'd come out of the frozen, dead forest of the campground area, he'd finally caught sight of something. The mountain in the center of the island that rose so majestically into the sky sported something.

An observatory.

It was on a plateau, overlooking the region. And as soon as he set sight on it, a thought had begun to burrow into his skull. That was a good place for a rally point. And he kept thinking that if that was _his_ immediate thought, then there was a pretty decent chance that it had been Serrano's thought as well. He'd given himself until he reached the road that led to the observatory to decide whether or not he would pursue it.

And so, here he was.

Standing there, Greg considered his options. The town was still a good eight miles away. It said so, right on the sign to his right. On the other hand, the observatory was just a simple two miles away. He _could_ be adding four unnecessary miles and who knew how much time and danger onto his journey, but...well, he supposed it was just as likely that he'd find either what he was looking for or danger in either direction because at this point the island was a total Russian roulette situation. He had absolutely no idea which or how many chambers were loaded. Finally, Greg turned left, facing the mountain and the observatory.

The idea that it would make a good rally point just wouldn't go away, or, more significantly, that Serrano or Bell, (more than likely Serrano), would have the exact same thought. Feeling about as good about this whole situation as he was going to, Greg set off down the new path. He set a brisk pace, sticking to the middle of the road, keeping an eye out. The forest continued right up to the road to his left, the way he'd come from, but it seemed far sparser on the other side. In fact, he could see a structure up ahead on that side, maybe a football field's length away from his current position. So, bonus there.

He kept scanning the area around him, including the sky. There were just two shells left in reserve now, and after that it was back down to his knife again. Greg honestly hadn't thought he'd have to put the ammo to use so fast, or frequently, since finding it. But obviously this place was going back to nature with the power out and most of the population dead or gone. The way was clear though, for now at least.

As he walked, Greg found his mind wandering into a new place. Or rather an old one. A bad, old, miserable place that he tried hard to stay out of. His past. It was ugly and shameful and he hated thinking about it but that was one of those little quirks to the human mind, wasn't it? Sometimes, it went looking for the worst possible crap it could dredge up. All the humiliating and embarrassing things you'd ever said or done. The bad things you'd done. The accidents you'd had. He remembered a lot of things.

Like pissing his bed until he was damn near fourteen.

Now _that_ was humiliating. But really, it was just a drop in the bucket of his childhood. Well, most of his life, actually. He thought about growing up poor, below the poverty line, coming home from school every day and wondering if the electricity or the hot water would still be on. He remembered going to school in ripped clothes or too small clothes or stained clothes. Getting screamed at by his parents.

Mostly he remembered making stupid choices and doing stupid things.

Mercifully, he arrived at the building, which turned out to be a rest stop with a few cars in the parking lot. Greg put his mind to the task of dissecting the situation before him. First thing on the menu was a perimeter sweep, which he conducted, checking out the exterior sections around the edges of the structure and its parking lot, which was small and made of cracked blacktop. He peered in through the windows of the squalid building and saw nothing moving around inside. There was a dumpster out back and a place where obviously someone had spent a lot of time smoking. He made a complete circuit, finding nothing alive.

Next on the list was the cars. There were three of them. He opened the first one and tried to start it, but it refused to turn over at all. From there, he searched the glove compartment, the backseat, and under the seats. He managed to pop the trunk but there wasn't anything there save for a spare tire. Sighing, he moved on to the second vehicle. A window had been smashed open and, as he suspected, there was the same amount of materials inside for him. Greg moved over to the third vehicle, then hesitated.

There was someone sleeping in the backseat.

He stepped up to the car and knocked on the window. The person didn't move at all. He knocked again, harder, and then stopped. Frowning, he leaned in, cupping his hands around his eyes to get a better view.

"Crap," he muttered.

Whoever was in there was dead. He could tell already. They weren't moving at all and there was a thin layer of frost on them. He tried the door and found it unlocked. Pulling it open, Greg leaned in and studied them. The poor bastard was a young man with short blonde hair and stubble. He looked like he might've been Greg's own age, although unlike Greg himself, this guy actually _looked_ twenty six. Not that that counted for anything anymore. He wasn't sure how long he'd been here. The guy could've frozen to death the very same time that Greg had been sleeping in a cave with that fire he'd been lucky enough to make.

Or he could've died while they were still in transit to this world.

Did it matter? He supposed he'd rather know more, but right now, on a practical level, it didn't. And, on a practical level, Greg had to search him. So he did. It was unhappy work but not ugly work at least. The guy hadn't bled everywhere, his intestines hadn't spilled out, there wasn't a gaping bullet wound somewhere on his body. He was cleanly, clinically dead. Nothing in his pockets, though, and they looked like they'd been disturbed. Was that a good sign? Had Serrano and Bell come this way? Performing searches?

He hoped so. As he searched the car, he wondered: why had this guy frozen to death out here? There was a building right there. Maybe there had been some reason he couldn't leave the car. Greg could think of at least one, as he'd recently been trapped in a car. If there was a varg between you and the building, then it didn't matter that he'd parked barely twenty feet from the front door. Or maybe he'd had some other reason for thinking the vehicle would be a better bet than the structure. Again, it didn't matter.

Dead was dead.

Yet again, a fruitless search. With a sigh, his breath foaming on the frigid air, Greg shivered and then headed into the rest stop. He looked around the interior slowly as he stepped inside, and felt his hopes fall just a little bit farther. The shelves were barren, the soda cases smashed and empty. It looked just as depleted as everything else he'd encountered so far. What a mess. Given this level of emptiness, he was beginning to think that there must have been an evacuation notice before they showed up. It would fit with the timeline.

So what warranted the evac?

Maybe the solar flare or whatever it had been hadn't been the first one. Or whatever _else_ had instigated the initial distress call had caused it. Or both even. Thinking these thoughts, Greg began a slow, methodical search of the rest stop. There were shelves along the walls and two more shelves creating an impromptu aisle down the center of the building. Seeing this reminded him again of his miserable childhood, of that ratty, rundown little corner store a few blocks from his house that often served him and his ragtag friends as a beacon, given they could hit it up for cheap food and drinks, which, in a way, was only more depressing.

When your beacons of hope were filthy, destitute places that most people wouldn't bother entering, then what did that say about the rest of your life? Greg had spent a long time hating everything. Hating the lack of credits, hating his school, hating most of the people he had to be around, his parents. As he got older and learned more about human nature and the fundamentals of existence and society, he hated that, too.

And he hated the hate, ultimately, because it was like a toxin.

He'd spent awhile hating himself, too.

But that was in the past, he told himself firmly as he hunted on, checking out a pair of squalid bathrooms in the back, and a little storeroom that also served as a break room and an office, and was just as ransacked as everywhere else. He wondered where all this supplies had ended up, how many greedy hands like his own had pawed through this place over the past few days, if the supplies were being put to good use or if whoever had grabbed them, horded them, had frozen to death or been eaten by vargs.

In the end, Greg sat behind the counter with a little collection of supplies he'd found in out of the way locations, hidden under shelves or in the shadows, tucked away in places other people might not think to look, or might not be diligent enough to check. He found a pack that held some crackers and a tin of tuna, a bottle of water that wasn't totally frozen, a can of mixed fruit, a can of kidney beans, and finally another can of peaches. Looking at the food, Greg's stomach rumbled and his throat ached. Well, now was a good time for a break, he supposed.

"I miss Mountain Dew," he muttered as he set to it.

Given the water wasn't all the way unfrozen, he shrugged out of his pack, set it on the floor, opened it up, and slipped the bottle inside. Then he set one of his canteens on the counter and, after a moment's consideration, he put away the can of mixed fruit and the kidney beans. He didn't really like eating raw beans but he would if it came to that. Instead, he helped himself to a hearty meal of some tuna, crackers, and a can of peaches. What a great meal. He found himself thinking of tacos and burritos, or steak and eggs.

Man, steak and eggs would be pretty fantastic right now. And some hashbrowns. And chili. Damn, he missed chili! How long had it been since he'd had a bowl of chili? Probably longer than it had been since he'd had a _good_ one. He suddenly promised himself that, the first chance he got, if he could find the proper supplies, he was going to make himself a pot full of chili. Maybe there would be proper supplies at that observatory.

Probably not...but maybe.

The meal was over too quickly, but it served its job, bringing his hunger and thirst levels back down to tolerable probably for the next few hours. He threw the trash away and headed back outside. Greg scanned the skies and saw more gray clouds gathering on the horizon. They seemed closer than they had before. Crap. He really didn't feel like enduring another one of those brutal storms, but what choice did he have?

That helped impress on him a stronger sense of time, something that was a little easy to lose track of when it felt like you were the last person on the entire planet, and he hit the road once more. More time passed, seconds bleeding into minutes. The wind blew, the sun made imperceptible progress across the sky, and Greg thought about chili, about which spices he would use, and whether or not he'd go forward with making it if he couldn't find some saltine crackers. Because what was chili without those crackers?

He came upon another building before too long, a public restroom sitting at the side of the road. No cars in its parking lot. He almost passed it without looking, but knew it would bug him if he didn't, and for good reason: anything could be in there. He might find the body, or bodies, of his fellow Marines tucked away inside. It wouldn't be a happy find, but it would be an important one. Right now, finding Serrano and Bell was his main goal. If they were dead, he needed a new goal. So he made the time and approached the structure.

It was a low building made of weather-worn gray brick, an ugly structure, like just about everything else man-made on this island. He checked the men's room first, finding nothing but empty stalls. He checked the women's room next, and found more of the same. Around back, there was a single door that was open a crack. Cautiously, he pushed it open, shotgun in hand, unsure of what he might find inside.

He didn't expect to find another frozen corpse.

Even more so, he didn't expect to find someone who had apparently died of a drug overdose. The room beyond the door was a small combination office/storeroom, with shelves of toilet supplies to the left and right, and a desk dead ahead. The person, a slim man with a gaunt face and tired eyes, was slouched in the chair, an empty hypodermic needle frozen to his hand. As Greg went about his search of the room and then the body, he found himself suddenly speculating about what might have gone down here.

It was interesting, not the situation itself, that was sad and a little horrifying, but the broader strokes of this whole thing. This was like a little scene, with all sorts of implications. What had led to this? What had the person been thinking? Had it been an act of defiance? Desperation? Anger? Had it been an accident? Had they seen something so horrible they would rather go out in a drugged haze? Or had they been stressed by the no doubt catastrophic events that had befallen the island and were just looking for an outlet?

Greg had experimented with drugs throughout his life before he'd signed up for the Marines. Now, they mostly scared him. And not only because some of them could outright kill you if you had a bad reaction or got a bad dose cut with the wrong crap, but mainly because he'd seen addiction. He'd been on that path at one point, saw the addicts and it was like looking in a mirror, or maybe into a time portal: himself in a few years, maybe even a few months. And that scared the crap out of him, to be so reliant on something. To be incapable of feeling happiness unless he was doing drugs. Ultimately, he'd decided he'd rather enjoy whatever happiness came his way instead of the alternative, because that was a long, deep rabbit hole of diminishing returns with no happy ending.

He didn't judge anyone who did drugs, he didn't even think there was a problem with doing most of them recreationally. Life was hard, and it was harder than ever now with the war with the Covenant going on for so long and so poorly. People coped in different ways. He'd just been stubborn and lucky enough that he'd forcefully wrestled his coping mechanisms into useful activities, like working out and training on the gun range or hand-to-hand combat. He knew that was rare, and treasured the fact that he'd managed to make that work every day.

There was nothing he could put to use in the office, so he stepped back out, closing the door all the way this time, leaving the poor mystery corpse in peace, hopefully saving it from being eaten by the wildlife. Someone might come looking for this body one day. As he resumed his journey, Greg found himself wondering how many scenes of death and destruction he had come across in his life. He'd gotten good at being able to get a decent idea of what had happened, and most of the time he had his answer for why it had happened.

Usually it was: the Covenant killed people.

But he still wondered about what they'd been thinking at the time, what had ultimately culminated in them being there. He wondered what would be going through his mind when he was finally gunned down, because there was like a ninety five percent chance of that being that way he went out. Which, all things considered-

" _ARWK!_ "

Greg snatched the shotgun from where it hung and snapped his eyes skywards as the awful throaty cry tore through the air. He swallowed, his heart doubling in beats per minute almost instantly as he became keenly aware of the fact that he was no longer alone. Had to be one of those bird things, but where was it? The damned skies were clear-

" _ARWK!_ "

He whirled around and caught sight of it. "You have _got_ to be kidding me!" he cried as he had a glimpse of the full breadth of the thing. It had to have a wingspan of a good dozen feet! It was _huge_! And it was coming right for him. Greg snapped the shotgun up and fired off a shell. And _missed_! He screamed again and threw himself to the side, then screamed a third time, this time in pain, as he felt something rip across his cheek, cutting a burning line of agony there. Immediately he felt blood begin seeping down his face.

No time for that now. He rolled over onto his back, hunting frantically for the creature, and saw that it was rising into the air, preparing to dive-bomb him once more. Just like before, he was probably only going to get one more shot at taking this thing down. Well, not like all his attacks before, if he'd screwed up the drub shot he'd be dead now. But he was merely wounded, he could deal with that, but if this thing gouged an eye out or managed to rip his neck open then he was probably done for. He tracked it with the shotgun.

Being that it was a shotgun, he had to wait for it to get close.

It was pretty difficult. Especially when that thing reached its peak, tucked in its wings, and made for him like a kamikaze bomber, shrieking madly, dark gray feathers bristling wildly in the rushing chilled winds, big red eyes wide and full of alien hate. At the last second, Greg squeezed the trigger and watched its upper body disappear in a plume of pulpy gore. He immediately leaped back several steps, nearly tripping over his own two feet, but it was worth it. He managed to avoid getting most of its blood on him.

The body hit the road with a sick, heavy wet _thwap!_

"Why...in the _hell..._ does anyone live here?!" he growled angrily, staring at the corpse.

This was a volar, and it was hideous and terrifying. Greg looked up again, suddenly paranoid of more of the ugly things coming his way. After making time to do a quick patch job on his facial wound, he turned around and started walking, quickly feeding his last two shells into the shotgun.

Altogether, he'd managed to make it a little over a mile so far.

Halfway there. Hopefully the second half of the walk went better.


	9. Chapter 09: The Observatory

"Oh... _finally,_ " Greg whispered as he came to a halt at the base of the mountain.

He looked up, seeing the observatory he'd been walking towards for what felt like too long now looming overhead like a steel sentinel, looking grimly over the barren and forsaken land that fell under its providence. There were a series of switchbacks that provided the only means, as far as he could see, up to the structure itself. Greg slowly looked around, taking the time to rest for a bit and survey his surroundings.

Luck had been with him after that confrontation with the volar. Nothing else had come after him. Unfortunately, he hadn't run into any other buildings along the way, and just one abandoned car that had yielded nothing worthwhile. So mainly the walk had been boring. He'd hurried up as much as he could, and certainly it had gone faster because almost nothing had tripped him up, but he still felt the press of time.

With that thought looming on the horizon of his consciousness, Greg stopped resting and began making his way up the switchbacks. It was mindless and simple work, but also irritating work. There were eight of them, going up and up and up. But, like all bad (and good) things, it came to an end, and he at last found himself standing before the entrance to the observatory. It was an impressive structure, and neat-looking too. It was basically a tower of white metal with a bulbous cap that had a large metal pole sticking out of it.

Greg refocused his mind now that he had reached the next portion of his mission. He checked out the small area that served as a front lot for the observatory, but it was empty save for some benches and tables. He then moved in through the front door, clearing the room beyond slowly with his shotgun held firmly in hand. As he stepped inside however, he immediately picked up on something: blood. There was blood on the floor.

Human blood. A trail of it.

And it was fresh.

Someone was here.

"Hello?!" he called out. "UNSC Marine Corps!"

He paused, listened, and thought he heard a faint voice respond. "Crap," he whispered, and set off. Going as fast as he could while still checking his corners, he cleared the first floor, following the blood trail through an entrance lobby, a very small elevator lobby, then up two flights of stairs. The floor he came to looked like it wasn't really meant for the public, and he figured it was probably where whoever ran the place lived. Sure enough, as he opened a door and stepped inside, still following the bloody trail, he found himself in a very small living room. There was a kitchen area ahead of him, and...a body. This was where the trail ended.

Greg cursed and moved forward, immediately recognizing Private Bell. He was lying on his face on the floor and not moving at all. Kneeling by him, Greg checked his pulse, but his skin was room temperature. There was no pulse. He was dead.

"Who's there?" an extremely weak and familiar voice asked.

"Serrano?" Greg replied, rising quickly to his feet and turning towards the nearest door. "I'm coming in," he said and opened the door.

There he found Lance Corporal Isabella Serrano sprawled out on a single-wide bed, one leg and one arm hanging over the side. Her right arm was bloody on the forearm, and he immediately suspected the problem.

"Greg?" she asked weakly. She was deathly pale and as he crouched down beside her, he felt heat rolling off of her in massive waves.

"I'm here, Izzy," he replied. "Wolf thing bite you?"

"Yeah..."

"Don't worry, I can handle this. How long has it been?" he asked as he shrugged out of his backpack and dug out his medical kit.

"Don't know..."

She passed out. He sighed and cracked open the kit, then grabbed his last remaining dose of anti-poison, went through the process, and injected her with it. He gave her the entire dose, then tossed the hypodermic in the trash and stood up. He watched her for close to five minutes, frowning intensely, worry pounding through his skull. She was still breathing, but nothing had changed about her. Finally, he decided either it was going to work or it wasn't, and he should go forward like it was, which meant taking care of her.

With a sigh, he grabbed a chair, dragged it over, and then carefully picked up her limbs and repositioned her so that she was laying fully on the bed. He then sat down and set the medkit next to her, then set to work fixing her wounds. The wolf bite was bad, worse than his had been, as apparently she was missing her armor on that part of her body. He pulled away the shredded, bloody remains of the sleeve there, then cleaned and bandaged the wound. Once that was done, he injected her with a universal antiviral/antibiotic.

For a moment, he waffled about whether or not to check her over for more wounds, and finally decided to do a cursory search to see if she was bleeding from anywhere else that was obvious. He checked her over quickly and found nothing, then took a moment to check her temperature, sticking the thermometer in her ear and waiting for it to beep. He winced when he saw that it read **104F**. Not great but not technically lethal, provided it didn't rise. He sat in his chair, watching her anxiously, and considered what to do for a moment.

Finally, he packed up the medical kit, replaced it in his pack, stood, and shrugged into the backpack once again. There were things that needed doing. Before he left, Greg checked in the freezer. It didn't work, but it was still cold inside. There was some ice. He grabbed it, then hunted down a plastic bag, bagged the ice, then smashed it up, wrapped a small towel around it, and moved back over to Serrano. After laying it across her forehead, he took a look around the squalid bedroom, confirmed that it was secure, then left it and closed the door firmly behind him. And then he set off to make sure the observatory was secure.

* * *

It was slow work that was equal parts satisfying and irritating.

It was satisfying because there _was_ something oddly satisfying about clearing a building, room by room, checking out each and every space, and making sure that there was no one and nothing hiding. It was irritating because he couldn't stop thinking about Serrano, terrified that he was too late, and she was going to die. He kept going back to her roughly every ten minutes, making sure she hadn't stopped breathing, and he ended up checking her temperature each time, so he just left the thermometer there. After half an hour, it dropped a degree.

Within another half an hour, it dropped a second degree, and still she breathed.

Bit by bit, he relaxed, and he kept searching. On the first floor he found the lobby, the small elevator lobby, a janitor's closet, and a tiny bathroom. Nothing in them, though he took the opportunity to take another bathroom break, and lock the front door. On the second floor he found a little area that acted as both an observation deck, with a floor-to-ceiling glass front, a collection of chairs and tables, and a little concession stand that was almost empty. But not totally empty. He noted that and made sure to come back when he was done.

The third floor was just the apartment, which he cleared once more, just to be safe, and checked on Serrano again. The fourth floor was the actual observatory. Besides the main room, there was just another supply closet, and a few small rooms meant to house the technical guts of the telescope. Still nothing at all. Once he was sure they were secure, he went and scavenged whatever food he could from the concession stand. There wasn't anything worthwhile in the bathroom or closets he found, so he retreated to the apartment and locked the door behind him.

With that out of the way, he performed another, more thorough search of the apartment, including Private Bell's corpse. He found a varg bite on his leg and figured he must've succumbed to the poison. Damn. Although he finally found that sidearm he'd been missing since he woke up in the blizzard. Frowning, he reached down and began to disengage the man's hip holster.

"Sorry, Bell," he muttered as he took it, "but I need it more now."

Once it was free, he attached it to his own belt, then pulled out the pistol and checked it over. It was empty, Bell had fired off every last shot, but the gun looked intact. He reloaded it with his single magazine he'd been holding onto since way back when, and then holstered it. Unfortunately, Bell didn't have anything else on him, nothing in his pockets, and he didn't have a pack of any kind. With a sigh, Greg continued his search.

He found some painkillers in the bathroom, and some more food and drink in the kitchen, even a few cans of soda in the fridge. Mountain Dew Starburst. One of the newer flavors. He was in the process of sorting out everything he'd found when he heard Serrano call out.

"Greg...you still there?"

He walked over to the door. "I'm here, Serrano."

She sighed. "Just call me Izzy. Get in here."

He opened the door and saw her still laying on her back, staring at the ceiling. She looked a lot less like death warmed over now. "What...happened?" she asked, focusing on him.

"I found you barely conscious laying in this bed, and then you passed out mid-conversation. You were bitten by a varg. I injected you with the antidote, and cleaned your wound. Then I went to search the observatory. Just finished the search."

"How long was I out?" she murmured weakly, reaching up and pulling the towel-wrapped ice, now no doubt melted, off her forehead.

"About two hours," he replied.

"Damn. Well, I guess I'm not dead. I feel like hell..." She frowned suddenly, her eyes narrowing as she refocused on him. "You didn't...do anything to me, while I was out, did you?"

"No, of course not," he replied.

She studied him, then relaxed and closed her eyes.

"Do you believe me?" he asked.

"I do, actually. You never threw up any red flags like that. Um...thank you. For helping me." She paused again. "Is Bell..."

"He's dead," Greg replied. She sighed and nodded silently. "Everyone else is, too."

"Confirmed KIA's? All of them?" she asked.

"Yes, although I thought you'd know that."

She sighed. "My memories are a little hazy right now, after all that happened and that poison. It was a really close thing, I think. I honestly thought I'd hallucinated you when I woke up just now. I was positive you were dead. I saw you get sucked out the back, man. I really thought you were a goner. It's a freaking miracle you're here."

"Yeah it is," he confirmed. "I almost wasn't. More than once I almost bought it." He shook his head slowly, ran a hand down his face. "It's just us now."

"No sign of the second Pelican?" she asked.

"No, none. I mean, it could've landed somewhere else on the island...or it could've gone into the ocean. Or maybe it managed to fly on farther inland. And I'd be honestly surprised to find anyone else alive on this island. I've found a few corpses so far."

"Yeah, I remember that at least. You'd have followed the same path we did."

"You were very thorough in your searches, you hardly missed anything," he replied. They fell silent and remained so for a few minutes. Finally, he sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "Okay, we're going to need a plan."

"Yep," Izzy grunted. "There's a military base on this island. We need to get there. Even if there aren't survivors or power there, there has to be supplies. I think if we're going to put a call out or even find a way off this island, that'll be our best bet."

He nodded. "That's definitely a solid plan. Before we go, I think we should do a full inventory of resources, maybe have a meal, and I really need to finally take an opportunity to check myself over for wounds."

"You haven't done that yet?" Izzy asked.

"No, haven't really had the chance. Here," he said, and got up, "could you empty your pockets onto the chair?"

"Yeah, sure," she replied, and began doing that.

He left her to it, moving into the bathroom. There, he began the long, painful process of taking off his armor, his boots, and then his uniform. After five minutes, he stood nude before the mirror and studied himself. He looked like absolute hell. His body was bruised and battered, and there were a number of scrapes and cuts to go with all the ugly bruises. Honestly though, he was surprised he hadn't come out worse for the wear. He took the opportunity to wash up with a rag and a bar of soap he found, mixed with some of his water from his canteen. Probably a waste of resources, but it would go a _long_ way towards making him feel better.

Even if it hurt, running the cloth all over his battered body.

But after he'd washed up, then cleaned his wounds and bandaged them, then pulled his clothes, his boots, and his armor back on, he _did_ feel a lot better. As he stepped out of the bathroom, he saw that Izzy had left the bedroom and was sitting at the table in the living room area, a meager pile of belongings spread out on it before her.

"I'm surprised you didn't have more," he said.

"We did," she replied, frowning. "When we got attacked by those wolf things, they got Bell's backpack. We found just the one pack, and I gave it to him to haul, and they ripped the pack off his back and away into the forest. I have no idea where it is now."

"Damn, that's bad luck," he muttered. Finally, he shrugged out of his pack and emptied it onto the table for her to see. They were in this together now. He was going to need her help as much as she might need his, or at least hopefully wanted his. They spent a little while sorting through it, then ended up dividing a meal among themselves. They each took a can of Mountain Dew, and he gave her his second canteen of water. He had the peaches, a few grab-bags of chips and a candy bar he'd found down at the stand, and she had the can of mixed fruit he'd been holding onto, as well as a can of black beans and a chocolate bar.

They ate in silence, contemplating the road ahead.

When they were finished, he replaced the supplies. She at least had another pistol and two spare magazines on her, one of which she gave to him. She also had a combat knife, a lighter, and some flares on her, all of which she pocketed.

She had also managed to find a map of the island.

"You've got a look on your face like you're mulling over an unhappy idea," he said.

She glanced at him, then laughed tiredly. "I was thinking about the fastest way to the military base."

"What is it?"

She laid the map out and pointed at it. "The mines, here. About a klik east, down the mountain. That's where the main entrance is. It's either go through the mines, or take about eight times the walk around the mountain."

He sighed. "There could be anything in there..."

"I know, but I think we should do it. Not a bad place for survivors, too."

"If there _are_ any...yeah, I agree." He pointed at a little square about halfway in between where they were now and the mine entrance. "Any idea what that might be?"

"A rest stop, or a cabin maybe, I dunno."

"We should check it out on the way there. At this point, any supplies we find are going to be crucial," he replied.

She nodded tiredly. "Yeah..."

"How are you feeling?"

She sighed. "I hate to admit it, but not up to par yet. I'll need some time. Maybe another hour. Then we'll go," she said.

"Okay."

She got up and headed back to the bedroom, where she laid down slowly on the bed. Despite everything, Greg found himself feeling the best he had since he'd first woken up on this godforsaken place.

He finally had an ally.


	10. Chapter 10: Whiteout

It took two hours for Izzy's anger to win out over her physical exhaustion.

She slept for about an hour, then tried to get out of bed, but was still too weakened from the effects of the poison. She didn't go back to sleep, but she drifted in and out, drinking water every now and then. Figuring he could use the opportunity, Greg went out and melted and boiled some more snow, filling up both canteens and all the bottles of water they'd collected so far. He did this more than once, taking the opportunity to drink his fill, and get a fair amount of it for Izzy. Finally, as the second hour had passed, she'd emerged from the bedroom.

"Let's go," she said.

She looked awful. Her skin was still pale, she had deep bags under her bloodshot eyes. He hesitated. "We should wait longer," he said. "You look terrible."

"Thanks," she muttered. "We've wasted enough time. I'm not laying around like a lazy piece of crap any longer. We're going."

"Izzy, you were poisoned, you almost died-"

"We're. Going," she growled.

He stared at her for several seconds. Greg wondered suddenly if this was a side effect of the poison, but slowly surmised that no, this was just a side effect of her personality. She was very stubborn. And, honestly, he got it. He understood what she was feeling. When you based your self-worth on your ability to perform, which a lot of people did, it was hell when you were waylaid by physical illness or injury.

It was roughly a thousand times worse as a Marine.

He glanced out the window. The skies were noticeably darker now, but save for that and a bit of wind, he couldn't see any sign of a storm. Finally, given that he had rested, eaten, drank, and even dozed for a bit while waiting for her, he determined that if they ran into anything, he could handle it. And who knew, maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe she looked worse than she was. Izzy _was_ a tough and competent individual, after all.

"Fine," he said, standing up and pulling on his pack. He'd made sure to have everything ready to go at a moment's notice. "We'll head out. I want to check out that structure, whatever it is."

"Fine," Izzy replied quietly.

He checked out his pistol and shotgun quickly, then led the way out of the apartment. As they started making their way down the stairwells though, he began to get a bit more worried. Izzy was moving slow. But the determined, pissed off look on her face told him all he needed to know. She was going to keep going, no matter what. Crap. On the one hand, he really did understand, on the other hand...they couldn't afford to take risks right now. Then again, he'd been taking risks ever since waking up last night.

So he pressed on, leading the way with his pistol out.

They reached the front entrance and made their way out into the cold light of day once more. It was definitely grayer, darker, and colder. It hadn't been this cold when he'd come out to melt the snow for their water. Greg hesitated, his instincts warning him of something, though he wasn't entirely sure what. Unfortunately, a survey of the area told him nothing. Even when he moved up to the edge of the switchbacks and looked down, he could see nothing. With a soft sigh, he began heading down, and Izzy followed him silently.

Although he'd never doubted her toughness and the natural grit she seemed to carry around with her, he was impressed. He had the idea that she'd been pretty much near death from that poison. He'd only experienced a bit of it, and it freaking _hurt_. It was miserable. He could only imagine how gut-wrenching she was feeling, even though it was in remission right now. The pair of them moved silently down the switchbacks, one by one, until they hit the ground once more. He could see the narrow gravel road that led away from them, in between the dead trees and the side of the mountain. This was their path, the way yet gone.

They set off.

For the first several minutes, everything went fine. Well, as fine as it could go, given the circumstances. He had to fight not to keep looking back over his shoulder every thirty seconds at Izzy, because he had the strong suspicion that she'd yell at him after misinterpreting it as him looking for signs of weakness. Greg had spent too long in that headspace. Feeling worthless, feeling weak, becoming _obsessed_ with presenting himself as strong, no matter the circumstances, because it felt like _everyone_ was judging him, everyone was looking for any conceivable opportunity to ridicule or embarrass him.

Or take advantage of any perceived weakness.

It had been a long, painful, difficult climb up out of the hole that was this toxic form of thought. This corroded, ugly lens through which he viewed the world. What's worse, he had to fight not to slip back into that mentality. It was like working out. You couldn't just get over the first hurtle of making yourself hit the gym...you had to keep doing it. Forever. You had to learn to live with it. He had to learn to live with the reality that his mind worked against him, that it _wanted_ to drag him back to that toxic waste pit of despair and fury.

But he wasn't concerned with judging Izzy for any 'weakness' on her part. He was relying on her, but he was also concerned about her, just like he'd be concerned for any other survivor he'd encountered.

Okay, well...he'd be admittedly less concerned with Wallace. That guy had been a dick. But he'd still be trying to work with him, offering him help, regardless.

As they walked on, the wind picked up, and the air grew fangs. The bitter cold cut into them, and soon his nose went numb, then his face. He looked behind them. The switchbacks had disappeared from view. Ahead of him, he thought he could just barely manage to make out what might be a structure on the right side, or at least a clearing in the heavy forest of dead trees. He glanced back once more at Izzy.

She looked pretty bad, but she was still going.

"What's the hold up?" she growled.

"Nothing. Thought I heard something," he lied, then kept walking.

Only about thirty seconds later, he _did_ hear something. Over the winds, he heard a growl, and a twig break. Bringing his pistol up, he froze and scanned the area around them. Something gray shifted in the trees.

"Varg! Two o'clock!" he shouted as he tracked it with trembling hands.

Damn! It was too cold out here!

As the varg emerged from between a pair of trees, growling deeply, red eyes staring malignantly, a gunshot sounded and it dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. He glanced over and saw Izzy holding her pistol.

"Dropped the bastard," she muttered.

Greg began to respond, then something caught his eye: a moving shadow creeping up the road from behind them, as silent as death. He looked up. A volar was coming. "Move!" he shouted, then raised the pistol and popped off a shot, then another when that went wide. The bullet punched through one of its huge wings, which just made it squawk madly and begin to dive for them. He kept firing and wasted three more shots before finally punching a hole in its neck. But even before it could hit the ground, he heard more growling coming from the treeline.

He snapped his gaze back in that direction and felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. Black terror flooded his system as he saw a good half-dozen shapes moving among the trees.

"Run!" he screamed, and fired a shot. He didn't see where it went, but something yelped, and then there was a blur of motion as they all began coming for them.

"We can take them!" Izzy snapped.

"Run, goddamnit! That's an order!" he screamed, and started sprinting.

She let out a scream of frustration, fired off two shots, and began running. Greg glanced over his shoulder as he numbly pounded the gravel road with his boots. He saw five low, lean gray shapes emerging from the trees to come for them like death on swift feet. He aimed back and fired the last two shots in his pistol, both of them going wild. Cursing, he holstered it and focused on running. Up ahead, he could definitely see a break in the treeline.

Seconds went by and the vargs drew closer.

Occasionally Izzy would fire off a shot, and that seemed to intimidate them, but only briefly. It was enough though. It bought them the precious seconds necessary to make it to that clearing. As it turned out, the mystery structure was someone's cabin. Grabbing his shotgun, Greg made it most of the way there, then spun around and aimed. Izzy was running towards him, a look of real fear now replacing her angry grit, and the vargs were on her. He fired off a shell, taking one of the vargs right in the chest and sending it sprawling.

It tripped up two of them, forcing them to hit the ground and scrabble to get back to their feet, and the other two hesitated. It was just enough for Izzy to sprint past him and throw open the door. He turned heel and ran for all he was worth. Izzy was standing at the doorway, breathing heavily, leaning on it, beckoning him onward. He got in and she slammed the door shut behind him, then leaned against it. Skidding to a stop, he swung around and joined her, throwing his weight against the door. It thumped solidly a second later and something let out a yelp. The varg on the other side growled for several seconds, and the door rattled a few times, then it stopped. Both of them stood beside each other, he leaned forward with his shoulder against it, she with her back to it. They stared at each other, catching their breaths.

Finally, Greg reached forward and hit the deadbolt, then, after a few seconds, reached down and locked the handle as well. Izzy looked down as he did this, then back up at him, then laughed suddenly. He burst out laughing as well, caught off guard by it, nearly giddy from the adrenaline and the near death experience.

Izzy straightened up, took a step, then her expression abruptly changed and she collapsed.

"Izzy!" he said, crouching beside her. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" she snapped.

He sighed, frustration mounting. "Goddamnit, Izzy, I'm trying to help you, not insult you."

She looked over at him, her face twisted in anger and pain, then the tension slowly went out of her. She sighed heavily. "Fine," she said finally. "I...could use some help getting back up. I need to lay down for a bit."

"Okay," he replied simply.

She looked like she was steeling herself for a retort, a chastising rebuke, or some other form of condescending remark, but he said nothing more than that and offered her a hand. She took it and he helped her up. As they began moving across the cabin towards the double-wide bed tucked away into one corner, he realized that the winds had picked up fiercely in the past minute. In fact, they were outright shrieking now.

He got her over to the bed and sat her down, then moved back over to a window built high into the front door. Snow was coming down hard and fast. He couldn't see the road anymore. Hell, he couldn't even see the vargs that were no doubt still out there. Visibility was down to maybe a foot. He shivered just looking at it. Although he _could_ see his breath on the air. It was freaking cold inside the cabin. Greg turned and surveyed the small structure they had taken refuge in. There didn't seem to be a lot to work with.

Although…

"Perfect," he whispered as he laid eyes on a small wood-burning stove. It was a very old, very anachronistic thing, but it sure as hell hadn't gone out of style in a place like this. There was even a small pile of neatly chopped firewood laid next to it. Walking over to it, he crouched in front of it and began the process of starting a fire.

"What are you doing?" Izzy murmured.

"Starting a fire. It's freezing," he replied.

"We aren't staying for _that_ long."

He sighed and glanced over his shoulder at her. "Izzy, it's whiteout conditions out there. We'd be snowblind the second we stepped out the door. Not to mention we won't be able to see the damned vargs until they're literally on us. That, combined with your current condition, means that the smartest thing to do would be to wait out the storm. And I'd say there's a good chance we're just going to be spending the night here. So...settle in."

She didn't say anything for several seconds. He kept working, positioning the wood and kindling properly, then putting his lighter to use.

Finally, she said, "Fine."

He heard her shifting around, then nothing. Not much later, he got the fire going and closed the front of the stove. Warming his hands, he looked over his shoulder again. She was laying on the bed now, rolled over, facing away from him. He suppressed a sigh and finished warming up his hands, then slowly stood, his knees popping.

It was time to search the cabin.

* * *

"Greg. I'm sorry."

Greg turned around, actually startled by her words. She hadn't said anything in the hour since they'd last spoken. Izzy was still facing away from him, but slowly, she rolled over. He'd managed to get a lot done in that hour, or he felt like he had. He'd managed to search almost the whole cabin, save for under the bed. He'd actually prepared to try, but then he'd checked on Izzy and saw that she'd actually fallen back asleep, so he'd left her undisturbed. Unfortunately, there wasn't a whole lot in the cabin. Just a few more cans of food (another can of black beans, one of sliced pears), leftover in the kitchen, and a bottle of painkillers in the bathroom. Not necessarily a bad find, just less than he'd hoped.

"What for?" he replied.

She slowly sat up, then swung her feet over the side of the bed and planted them on the ground. Sighing, she rested her forehead against her hand, elbow on her knees. She slowly massaged her head. He had the idea that she meant it to look like she was dealing with maybe a headache or something, but in reality she just didn't want to meet his eyes. He'd pulled that move before, when he was feeling uncomfortable.

"I'm not trying to be difficult," she said, slowly massaging her temples. "I mean, I know I am being difficult, but I'm not _trying_ to be. I just..." She hesitated, heaved a sigh. "I have difficulty...with letting people take care of me, or see me weak, in any capacity. And you've been nothing but helpful so far. I know that you aren't an asshole. I've managed to piece that together over the past few months. So I'm sorry for being a jerk when you've just been trying to help me. It's just...hitting me in a sore spot, especially with all the crap that's happened since the crash."

"Apology accepted. And I get it," he replied. Part of him wanted to tell her she didn't have to apologize, but part of an apology was making the person giving it feel better. He didn't think everyone who offered an apology deserved to feel better, but Izzy did. "It's been a really damned stressful time," he added.

She laughed softly, then groaned and straightened up. She laid a hand against her forearm, where the bite was.

"Here, we should get that cleaned and redressed," he said, shrugging out of his pack and pulling out the kit.

"No, I-" She stopped herself. "Yeah. That's a good idea. Thanks."

He pulled up a chair and sat down beside her, then began unwrapping the gauze he'd placed there earlier. The wound looked ugly, but it didn't look infected. He wanted to keep it that way. He tried to make conversation as he worked.

"So why are you, um...resistant to help?" he asked.

"It's just...having to fight for everything, prove I'm tough enough again and again and _again,_ you know, it wears on you eventually," she replied.

"I understand," he murmured.

"Do you?" she asked.

He looked up at her. Her eyes were hard, flinty, guarded. "I guess not in the same way you do, but...I do understand some of it. I've seen a lot of people give women crap in the military, so I can appreciate your situation. But I was a scrawny little puke growing up, surrounded by a bunch of big tough guys in a pretty poor colony. So I know what it is to get messed with for something you were born into."

"That's fair," she said, then winced as he began wrapping her arm with a fresh set of gauze. "Thanks," she murmured when he was finished. After a moment, she sighed heavily and looked around. "So, we're in for the night?"

He nodded. "I think that makes the most sense. Despite how hardcore you are, it makes more logical sense to wait out this blizzard, and the vargs, and regain our strength before hitting the mine in the morning. Provided the storm has passed."

"Yeah, it makes sense. I'm sorry. I was stupid. We should've just stayed at the observatory. It's just...after everything that happened, all my goddamned failure to save everyone else, _anyone_ else..."

"Given the circumstances, I think you did well, Izzy. Don't be hard on yourself. Even if you don't feel like buying into the psychological side of that particular emotional tangle, buy into the logical side of it."

"The logical side?"

"Hating on yourself, second guessing yourself, wastes time. It wastes energy. We don't have the luxury of wasting anything right now. We're in a bad situation. So get some rest, so that you can focus up," he replied, snapping the medical kit closed.

"I guess so." She paused, then looked at him. "You'll wake me if something happens? If you need help with something?"

"Yes," he replied. "I will."

"All right." She yawned. "This goddamned poison. We don't have anymore antidote for it, do we?"

"No. We're out."

She sighed. "Great. Fine, I'm going to rest up."

He nodded. "I'll need to do a search under the bed. I'll try to be quick."

"Go for it," she replied, and laid back down.

He set to work once more.

* * *

Time passed. An hour went, then two, then three.

The sunlight drained from the sky. The snowstorm shrieked on.

Greg killed time as effectively as he could. He double-checked the cabin to see if he'd missed anything, (he hadn't, and there was nothing but some old clothes and trash under the bed), and then went about securing the cabin as much as he could. He shoved a dresser in front of a window right next to the front door, which was the most obvious place the vargs could get through if they really wanted to. Or a drub.

Not a nice thought.

He then found a box of thumbtacks and tacked up as many of the clothes and some towels that he found over the windows as he could. Not perfect, but anything to help keep the heat in. The stove was doing a good job keeping it warm, but he wasn't sure if they'd have enough fuel to last through the night at the rate it was burning at.

At one point, as he moved among the windows, peeking through the holes in the towels and clothing he'd hung, he felt his heart leap into his throat as he caught sight of a varg right up next to the cabin, sniffing around. He'd waited, and eventually it had wandered away. It was still snowing, the wind blowing madly, shrieking all around them. He wondered how long this blizzard was going to last, and hoped it was over by morning.

Eventually, Izzy woke up, and when she did, she seemed a lot better. She'd regained her color, her eyes looked less baggy and bloodshot, and she was in a better mood. She moved with less sluggish lethargy. They took the opportunity to inventory their supplies again, and neither of them were particularly happy with the arsenal situation.

"I've got five shells and one full magazine for the pistol," Greg said. They were sitting across from each other at a small table with all their supplies set out before them.

"One full mag for me too. Plus our knives," Izzy murmured. She sighed. "Not exactly the best situation."

"No," he agreed. "We're going to have to find something more. If we're very lucky, then we'll make it to the military base, and they'll have at least _something._ Hopefully."

She nodded. "We should eat while we've got time and access to a fire."

"Good idea. I'm starving."

They found a pair of small pots and ended up playing rock, paper, scissors to decide who would eat the cream of celery, given that they both hated it, and Greg lost, so he gave up the vegetable soup. As they made their meal and finished settling in for the night, they began sharing stories about the now dead members of their team.

She told him about the time Tord had gotten himself into a game of strip poker with a group of techs, and the end result had been him streaking madly through the whole deck, and actually running into the Captain. The man had been in a pretty foul mood already, so he'd tossed Tord in the brig for a day, then made Brink assign him whatever crap duties he could think of for the next two weeks. Despite it all, Tord maintained that it was 'worth it'.

He then relayed to her the time Wallace had nearly had his windpipe crushed because he got into a bench-pressing competition with a woman from another squad. He'd _insisted_ he was stronger, even though she was clearly bigger and more built than he was. They'd kept throwing on more weight, and he'd nearly killed himself trying to lift it at one point, and he kept insisting that he didn't need a spotter or any help.

"You seem to be feeling better," Greg said after they finished laughing over Wallace's stupidity.

"I am. Although I'm just exhausted now," Izzy replied. She rubbed one of her eyes and yawned. "Really damned tired. Last time I was this tired was during boot."

"It's been a really long day," he agreed.

She looked at him suddenly, and seemed like she was wrestling around a thought or a decision in her head. He looked back, waiting to see what she had to say. He wondered if it pertained to sleeping arrangements. There was just the one bed, and no couch or recliner. He'd be willing to sleep on the floor, but he really wasn't looking forward to it.

"So I have a request...or an offer...both, I guess," she said finally.

"Um, okay. What is it?" he replied.

"A few days before this whole thing happened, I had finally made up my mind to, uh...see if you wanted to sleep with me."

He kept his expression carefully neutral. "Really?"

"Yeah. You're kind, you're attractive, you're...reasonable. So basically, what I'm asking is, are you interested, and if you are, do you think you can do it without it getting weird?"

"Define 'getting weird'," he replied.

"I guess, in short, I don't want our dynamic to change. Don't expect things from me, don't talk to me differently, don't confuse us for boyfriend or girlfriend." She frowned. "I'm not trying to sound like a bitch, nor am I saying that I'll _never_ want to take it further. I might. It's just that I've seen sex ruin relationships too often. You sleep with a guy once and there's a good chance he just assumes you're his now. The main reason I'm offering now is because I don't think you'll be like that...but I want to be sure. I just want to be up front now, beforehand, instead of just hoping we're on the same wavelength. Does that make sense?"

"It does. And you're being very reasonable. And I definitely get it."

"Okay, thanks. It's just that, with all the dying that's been going on recently, I honestly want to get laid one more time, you know?"

"I very much know that feeling too."

She smiled. "I kinda figured. So..."

"Yes. I'd be absolutely thrilled to sleep with you tonight, Izzy."

"Good!" She stood up. "Well, then, should we, uh..."

"Yeah. Why don't you check the perimeter, and I'll check the fire, then we can get to it."

"Perfect."

They set about their tasks, and Greg couldn't help but smile. Finally, he actually was going to get do something _enjoyable_.

It was, he hoped, going to be a good night.


	11. Chapter 11: Into Darkness

Greg opened his eyes.

It was silent, and for a few seconds, he couldn't recall where he was. The only thing he knew was that he was laying in a bed, and there was a woman next to him. Carefully, he began to maneuver, trying not to wake her. He had just enough time to remember where he was, and that this was Izzy, and that they'd had really good sex last night, before she woke up. Her eyes opened up and she looked around quickly, then zeroed her sights on him.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi," she replied. She seemed a little guarded. He remembered what she said, what she had requested the night before, and was fully prepared to keep to his promise.

"I think we should get up, get ready for the mines," he said.

She stared at him for a few seconds longer, then nodded. She looked a little relieved. Had she been expecting him to ask for morning sex? He admitted, he was tempted, and had really been hoping she'd be the one to bring it up, but was fully prepared to say nothing.

"That's a good idea," she said, and she pulled the blankets back, then groaned.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yes, just three bad things hit me all at once: it's _cold,_ I'm _sore,_ and I freaking _reek._ "

"Basically same for me," he agreed.

"We should wash. We can just melt more snow," she said as she got up.

He found his eyes drawn to her bare ass. She was in _amazing_ shape. "Yeah," he agreed, and got up as well.

As they began going about their morning routines, he noticed that she began to relax, which made it easier for him to relax. He remembered waking up a few times and tending to the fire in the night, but otherwise he recalled nothing save for their encounter before sleep. Which was good. It was deeply satisfying, actually, to have no dreams that he could remember. Greg was surprised that he'd had no nightmares.

They had left their supplies near the fire, so the water was at least lukewarm, as opposed to freezing cold, which went a really long way towards a pleasant morning. They washed themselves with soap and rags that they found in the bathroom. This time Greg dried his rag near the fire, then wrapped it around his bar of soap and slipped it into his backpack. He quickly pulled on his uniform, then his armor, and then he looked out the window built into the front door. It was a clear, bright day outside, and he couldn't see any vargs.

"Could you get the fire going full again?" he asked as he moved over and grabbed the two small pots they'd used to cook the soup in last night.

"Yeah, sure," Izzy replied. "You gonna check the perimeter?"

"Yeah, and get snow to melt for water," he replied.

"Okay. Yell if you need me."

"I will."

He first rinsed out the pots with some more water and some napkins he found in the kitchen, then set them on the floor beside the front door, then checked out the window once more, then, after hesitating for a second, he did a quick walk around the cabin and looked out the other windows. Everywhere looked clear, no signs of varg or drub or anything else. He moved back over to the door, unlocked it, and opened it up. The cold air that hit him was surprisingly welcome, it was a little refreshing and helped sharpen him up. Greg pulled out his pistol and stepped out, then closed the door most of the way behind him.

He spent a few minutes checking around the perimeter to be double sure, and once he was, he returned and grabbed the pair of pots. By the time he'd packed them with snow and returned, Izzy had the fire going again. After setting the pots atop the stove, he sat down and began waiting. Izzy sat next to him and rubbed her eyes.

"I'd kill for coffee," she muttered.

Greg grinned. He'd anticipated this, actually. Well, sort of. He moved over to the dresser he'd pushed in front of the window and opened the top drawer. There was the can of Mountain Dew Supernova he'd stored, as he didn't really want it getting warm, as warm soda tasted awful. To him at least. He'd been banking that it wouldn't freeze and burst, and it hadn't. In fact, it felt perfectly chilled. He returned and set it down on the table.

"Wanna split it? All we got for caffeine," he said.

"Yeah, sure," she replied.

He popped the top and they began passing it back and forth between them.

"You're weird," she said after a few moments of silence.

He laughed. "What? Why?"

"Not in a bad way. You just...you're oddly straightforward and kind. Those two things don't usually go hand-in-hand, in my experience."

"What do you mean?" he replied, honestly curious.

"A lot of Marines are blunt. That 'I say what I think and don't pull any punches!' attitude. Which is actually just, 'I want to get away with being an asshole without any consequences'. I've never really seen you be a jerk to anyone. As far as I can tell, you've never tried to deceive anyone. There's this simplicity to you, but not in a bad way. I guess, you don't seem like you have much else going on beyond what you're doing in the moment, you know?" She sighed. "I'm not trying to say you're stupid or anything..."

"No, no, I get it," he replied. "I...like to stay focused on the task at hand."

"Yeah, but you do that _all_ the time. You've got this laser focus, and I've seen that before, but I can't tell _where_ it's coming from. When people have a laser focus, it usually comes from a bad place. They're pissed off, or they have something to prove, or they're trying _not_ to do bad things. Where does yours come from?"

"Well..." He thought about that. "All of that's true, I guess. I'm not so pissed off anymore, for the most part. But...I've done bad stuff in the past. I was an angry person once. A violent person. I...when I signed up, I swore to myself that I would leave it behind. The anger, the hate, the rage, the depression..." he hesitated, and looked up at her. "Sorry, that got heavy and...personal."

"No, it's fine. That's...kinda what I wanted," she admitted. "I mean, I, you know...last night...if I don't hate a guy after that, I do like to get to know him more."

"Fair enough," he said. "I'm glad you don't hate me."

She laughed. "No, definitely not. You're a good guy, I at least know that."

"That's good to hear," he replied.

They waited for the snow to finish melting, then boiling, then they replenished their stocks and set about making breakfast. She ended up taking the can of sliced peaches and a breakfast bar, and he took the remaining can of black beans he had and another breakfast bar. They ate and drank the Supernova until it was gone, then drank some more water. After finishing breakfast, they did a weapons check, made sure they'd gathered everything back up, put out the fire, (in case they needed to come back here for whatever reason and didn't want to run the risk of burning it down), and then at last headed back out into the sunshine.

* * *

"I...suddenly feel less good about this," Izzy murmured.

"Same," Greg said.

The walk from the cabin to the mine entrance had lasted about fifteen minutes, and had been pretty pleasant. It was maybe a few hours past dawn, the sun climbing slowly into the sky, bathing the area in wonderful golden sunshine. The winds were down and the temperatures were up. It was actually half-decent out. So naturally they would be going into a mine, into the cold, dark underground. And now, upon arrival, they found several bloody bones scattered around the main entrance. It felt like a very dark omen.

"We don't really have a choice," Izzy said finally.

"Yeah..." Greg murmured. He sighed. "Let's just...make it happen."

"We should find a map."

He nodded. "Let's go."

Greg activated his flashlight, frowning when it flickered, then tapped it a few times. The light flickered a bit more, then steadied, and he began to make his way into the mine. The entrance was a large, broad opening in the side of the mountain, basically a square twenty feet by twenty feet, reinforced with heavy, weathered steel girders.

"Do you have a flashlight?" he asked.

"No, just this," Izzy replied, pulling out a lighter.

"Okay, I guess try not to use it too much and we'll look for another flashlight."

"If any of this crap even works."

She had a point, he figured. They looked around the main entryway, which was a huge, open room with a lot of old, rusty equipment scattered across the way, lots of tools everywhere, tables set up in a few makeshift work areas. They performed a basic sweep of the area, checking the shadows. But, despite the remains and the faint whiff of cold death, they seemed to be alone here. Had vargs made a home here? Or a drub? It was possible. There were a few exits, three smaller, regular-sized ones, and a huge tunnel. It was probably the way they were going to have to go if they wanted to make it through the mountain.

The first door led to a quartet of squalid, miserable barracks-style rooms and a few bathrooms and a shower area. Nothing worthwhile in there. The second door led to a cafeteria, which initially got him excited, but as they found empty cabinet after bare cupboard, his hopes dwindled and he began to wonder if maybe this was an abandoned mine. Made derelict before all the awful crap had gone down on this island. Well, it'd make sense. This island didn't exactly seem like a beacon of prosperity. After the disappointing search of the first two rooms, they came to the last area and discovered a sort of command center.

This place seemed to be a little more promising. There was a small infirmary, a break room, a pair of conference rooms, and a control room. The pair of them began to make quick work of searching the area eagerly for supplies. They talked as they searched, moving slowly through the rooms, checking every place they could think of, mostly telling more stories. Funny stories, close encounter stories, party stories.

Honestly, he was feeling pretty good, despite everything. Then again, a good sleep, a meal, a wash, and some...pleasant interaction with someone like Izzy, as well as her continued company, was going a very long way towards helping him cope with this nightmare he found himself in. He hoped he was having a similar effect on Izzy. Based on all he knew about her, she was a good person. He liked her a lot. And he found himself thinking of the previous night a lot. Greg wouldn't say that he had a tremendous amount of experience with sex. Maybe about average...but what was average? It seemed like almost everyone lied about sex, so it was impossible to get a real read, but what did it matter? As far as encounters went…

Izzy was amazing.

He didn't know if she was just good in bed in general, or if maybe she was just really compatible with him, or maybe he liked her even more than he thought. Despite how a lot of people seemed to approach this kind of stuff, he found that he tended to enjoy the experience more if he liked the person. He'd slept with a few very attractive women who he just...did _not_ like. It had been a decent experience, to be sure, but definitely went towards the low end of the spectrum. And it wasn't like they seemed unskilled at the art of making love.

Greg eventually derailed his train of thought. Besides the fact that it was distracting, (which was really dangerous in this kind of situation), he didn't want to even unintentionally hype himself up too much for the possibility of a repeat performance. Izzy seemed to have enjoyed herself, but she might decide not to keep going for any number of reasons, and he wasn't going to be difficult if that was her choice.

So he focused on the search. It proved to be a pretty decent expedition. They found enough medical supplies hidden away to refill his own depleted kit, and put together a second kit for Izzy. They also found her a flashlight. Not a _huge_ haul, but it definitely helped. They also managed to track down a map of the mine.

The path they needed to take was, at least, simple. Whether or not it was going to be easy was another story. It depended entirely on what they found in there. All they had to do was walk about half a mile in a straight shot through the mine. That main tunnel he'd seen earlier would indeed take them all the way to the other side. After their search of the area, the pair again found themselves standing before the vast, dark maw of an opening into the earth, uncertain about proceeding. They both had (mostly) working flashlights now, and bullets. Though not many. They had training and had been through combat, a lot of it.

And yet…

There was something deeply disquieting about the darkness ahead of them. Something daunting. "So it's just a straight shot then? We walk half a mile in a straight line?" Izzy asked, finally breaking the oppressive silence that had fallen across them.

"Yep," Greg replied.

She sighed. "Let's do it then. I want out of here."

"Yep," he repeated.

They set off.

At first, it wasn't so bad. The main path was a broad tunnel of earthen walls. Mostly just rock and dirt broken occasionally by steel girders and beams and brackets. The tunnel was littered with rocks and pieces of equipment and minecarts. A few were hover-capable, but most were old-fashioned wheeled carts. Their boots echoed as they walked down the tunnel, occasionally splashing through a puddle of oily, gray water.

Greg played his light over the area, covering the left side of the tunnel as Izzy covered the right. Occasionally there were side tunnels, leading away into more midnight gloom. Shadows seemed to gather along the edges of the tunnel, swelling and shifting under the pale beams of light, made worse when Greg's flashlight flickered. At about the halfway point, they came to a huge T-junction. Another large tunnel, maybe two thirds the height and width of the main one, snaked off deeper into the mountain, back towards the direction of the observatory, sloping deeper. As they reached it, they paused and shined their lights down it.

"You smell that?" Greg whispered.

"I smell dead things," Izzy murmured softly.

So far, they hadn't encountered anything alive, and occasionally had come across some more remains. The faint whiff of death had grown worse the deeper they'd gone in: spilled blood, perforated intestines, the decayed stench of rotting meat. But now, as they came to stand here, Greg smelled something else.

"No, there's another smell," he whispered. It was laced with the stench of cold death, beneath it perhaps, faint yet there. Whatever it was, it sent a nameless terror whispering through him, his body reacting to it instinctively, like the primal feedback your body spat out when you hit flight or fight mode. An automatic thing.

"Yes," Izzy growled suddenly. "What _is_ that? It smells like..." She hesitated, then shook her head. "I don't know what the hell it smells like..."

"Danger. It smells like danger," he muttered. "We should go."

"Yeah. We should."

They shined their lights down the tunnel one more time, then turned and began hurrying the rest of the way there. Up ahead, they could actually see the cold light of day on the other end of the tunnel. Greg glanced behind himself repeatedly, paranoid that something dark and deadly was slinking through the passageway towards him. But they remained alone.

That didn't last.

They were maybe eighty meters shy of the exit, the sunlight obvious now, and passed by another one of the smaller side tunnels that slanted off into the darkness. And something growled. Greg jerked his light towards the tunnel, then froze, his heart leaping into his throat as he spied a pair of eyes catching the light and throwing it back at them.

"What the f..." Izzy whispered.

More eyes opened. Two pairs. Three pairs. Half a dozen pairs.

"Go. Now," Greg said, and started running. Izzy joined him.

Something let out a deep growl and then they heard running footsteps. Were they vargs? It was impossible to tell yet but they had no more antidote on them. Only those growls didn't _sound_ like vargs. It sounded like something he'd never heard before. Crap, he'd read about other things on the island in that guide...what could they be?

He turned around and saw a collection of glowing blue eyes. There were lithe shapes low to the ground, moving in the dim light, and suddenly he remembered what they were.

"Nightwalkers!" he hissed, and began running faster.

"What the hell are nightwalkers?!" Izzy snapped.

"They're like...panthers! They're nocturnal, or they're supposed to be! We woke them up! Run faster!" he yelled.

They ran harder, boots pounding the rocky ground, growing closer and closer to the light. Greg grabbed his pistol, aimed back and fired a shot blindly. Something let out a snarling growl and he glanced over his shoulder again. They seemed farther back. If they could just reach the light, he had the idea that they wouldn't follow. Or, really, the blind hope. He looked ahead again. They were closer now, maybe fifty meters from the threshold.

Forty meters. Then thirty.

His lungs burned in his chest and his heart slammed painfully. They were still giving chase, but he thought it was starting to slacken. They ran until finally they burst out the other side, back into the sunlight. Greg spun around and raised his pistol, prepared to empty the magazine, but all he could see were glowing blue eyes, staring, maybe thirty meters off. They were immobile. Izzy stood next to him, her pistol out as well.

Slowly, one by one, the eyes disappeared, until they were gone.

"Damn," Izzy whispered, getting her breath back. "That sucked."

"We got through it," Greg replied.

"Yeah. Let's hope we don't have to go back there."

Now there was a nasty thought. He turned back around and looked at the road ahead. There was still a ways to go before the military base…

But they were a lot closer now.


	12. Chapter 12: Detour

"What did you mean?" Izzy asked.

"What?" Greg replied, startled. He glanced over at her. They had been walking down the road that led away from the mine for ten minutes now after passing a sign that read **UNSC OUTPOST 5 mi.** So far, they hadn't encountered anything in the form of hostile wildlife. The closer they drew to the UNSC outpost, the better he felt.

"Sorry, that _was_ kind of random. I was just thinking...my mind runs around a lot during these quiet times. You were talking about, well basically your dark past. I was just curious about it."

He hesitated, considering her question. "You don't think that's at least a _little_ hypocritical?"

"What? How is that hypocritical?" she asked.

"Last night you _explicitly_ told me not to be weird, and basically indicated you don't want things to get too personal. And yet, here you are, specifically asking me deeply personal questions." She sighed heavily. "Am I wrong?"

"No!" she replied. "Dammit, you're not wrong. You're just...sharp. You're right. It's annoying, but you're right. It's just..." she paused.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"I don't know if you've picked up on it, but I _have_ been basically courting you for the past few weeks."

" _Courting_ me?"

"I don't know what it's called! I've been checking you out! You caught my eye and I decided to do some recon! How's that?!"

"I'm sorry, I'm not trying to embarrass you or be difficult," Greg replied, unable to keep from smiling at least a little. The idea of Izzy courting anyone was kind of funny, but he could also see what was happening. "You're trying to open up to me. I appreciate that. I like you, too, you know. And I did notice, I guess. I mean, I knew _something_ was up. I thought you just had trouble making friends and thought I seemed like a safe bet."

"I don't-" she began, then hesitated.

"You don't what? Have trouble making friends? Really?"

She glared at him. "You are making this _difficult,_ Greg."

He realized she had a point. "I'm sorry. There's just, you know...there's something about you that brings out my kind of playful, antagonistic side. It's not meant to disrespect you, it's more just teasing. But not like asshole teasing, but like 'we're friends and I'm just playing with you' teasing. But I'll absolutely stop if you ask me to. I'm not really into just imposing stuff on people."

She laughed. "I'd say you're too nice for your own good, but the evidence doesn't bear that out so far. But thank you. I can appreciate the differences in teasing, and I'm actually okay with it from real friends. I don't mind BSing around with my friends. I like to, actually. A lot. It's just...I haven't had the opportunity to be around someone I've felt really, genuinely comfortable around in a long time. Or at least, it feels that way."

Greg sighed. "I actually know what you mean." He paused. "So, you want to know about my past. I'm okay with that. I guess, if you're going to trust me enough to let me inside of you, it's only fair I offer some trust back."

"You know, that doesn't necessarily mean I'm going to let you do it again," Izzy said.

"I know."

She shot him a sly grin. "Though there is admittedly a good chance."

"Oh...well, that's good then."

She laughed. " _That's_ your reaction to me saying there's a good chance I'll have sex with you again!? 'Well, that's good then.' Really?"

He shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean, uh...you know, I'm not really great with stuff like this. I don't know how to handle things like compliments or stuff like that. I thought that was the appropriate reaction and would get the message across. Don't get me wrong, I'm absolutely thrilled at the thought of having sex with you again. You are _amazing_ in bed."

She laughed louder now. "Okay, fair enough. So, you were saying?"

He sighed, his mood darkening as they walked down the middle of the road with dead, snow-capped trees surrounding them and an alien sun shining down on them, his breath foaming on the chilled air. "Where to begin? My parents...weren't supposed to be parents. I was an accident. People always ask how, what with the perfect birth control that's been around for hundreds of years. But that's the thing: Perfect birth control doesn't work perfectly if you don't have regular access to it. Which my mother didn't. So it's an age-old story of two idiots got married young because one of them got knocked up. They really didn't want me."

"So why didn't they-" she hesitated.

"Abort me? Hey, I've asked that question many times. Once to my mom's face."

"Oh my God, Greg. You asked that to your mother's _face!?_ "

"Yeah. We were arguing about something and I was just so miserable and we got into a screaming match and my mom hit me. Started hitting me, really. She hit me several times. She was drunk. So I asked her that. It just...tumbled out, you know, because I kept thinking it. I had been thinking it all week, wondering why I'd been born when my parents so clearly didn't want me."

"...and?"

He sighed. "I didn't get a straight answer but it stopped the fight and then she was nice to me for a few weeks. But that's how the cycle of an abuser works. They kick your ass in one form or another, until they go really over the edge and lose it, then they sob and cry and apologize and beg for your forgiveness and promise it'll never, ever happen again. And then they're sunny and happy for a few weeks, a few months if you're lucky, and then they start to get angry and..." he looked at her suddenly. " _Why_ do you want to hear this, Izzy?"

"I just...I'm sorry. I just wanted to get to know you better. I didn't realize it was _this_ bad. We don't have to keep talking about it if you don't want to."

He heaved another sigh. "I don't know...I guess just broad strokes, then. Mom was an angry drunk, dad was pretty absent. He was either working or probably off cheating or at the bar with his friends from work. He was more a distant drunk. He'd disappear for days sometimes. We lived on a really crappy, distant colony in poverty. I grew up broke as hell. You do stupid things and develop stupid habits when you're forced to grow up in poverty. I stole things. I joined a gang. I got in fights. I sold drugs. Society sits there and creates a system that literally forces some people into poverty, and then gets all pissed off and judgmental when those same people, who are pushed to the absolute limits of desperation, do stupid, desperate things to survive...oh crap."

"What?" she asked, looking around.

He slowed to a stop. There was a bridge ahead. Or, more importantly, there had _once been_ a bridge ahead. "That." He pointed.

"Crap," Izzy muttered.

They slowly resumed walking until they came right up to the edge of the bridge that spanned a chasm in the earth that extended away from them to the left and right. Judging from the condition of what remained of the bridge, attached to either side of the chasm, and the fact that he could see a car down there, about fifteen meters below, he'd guess that someone had crashed into a sensitive part of an old bridge in a state of severe disrepair, and it had just come apart. He looked left, then right. He couldn't see any other bridges.

He could, however, see a ladder on the opposite side, about fifty meters farther on to the right, as well as a stream cutting through the middle of the chasm, an abandoned cabin between the bridge and the ladder, and a natural path leading down on their side.

He said as much to Izzy.

"Well, we have our path cut out for us, at least," she said, and started walking. For a little bit, they moved down the natural incline, which was worryingly steep in some places and switched back on itself a few times.

Then Izzy asked: "Why did you sign up?"

He was silent for a few moments, considering his answer. Finally, he said, "Because I wanted to belong to something bigger and better than myself. Also, because I was extremely desperate. I was...in a bad place, after a run of a lot of bad luck. I felt like it was my only conceivable option left. So I signed up. I was twenty. I..." he hesitated.

"Yeah?" Izzy prompted.

"I suppose, if you want the naked truth, I signed up because I got caught in a drug bust. The Covenant was really breathing down their neck, so the UNSC were offering people deals: do a ten year haul in the military or a twenty year haul in prison."

"Huh. Yeah, I've met more than a few people who got in that way." She paused. "You _really_ don't seem like the type. Like, it's really hard to imagine you getting caught in a drug bust."

"When I hit boot, like I said, I promised myself I was going to get away from all that. And I've been bad about a lot of things in my life, but I have been surprisingly good about sticking to my word and keeping my promises. Plus...I liked it. I thought I'd hate it, and I did hate parts of it, but once I got through the crap, really got into the rhythm of military life, I actually liked it. A lot. What about you? Why'd you join?"

"Kind of the same reason. I mean, I wasn't committing crimes." She paused. "Okay, I never got _caught_ committing crimes, but the crimes I was committing were really minor. But I just...my life wasn't _going_ anywhere, you know? My dad was a boxer and taught me how to do it, and I wanted that to be my life, but nothing was _happening._ People weren't taking me seriously and although the boxing scene had been big in our colony when he was my age, at that point, it was a dying industry, or maybe even a dead one. There were just no prospects. One day I was working as a waitress-and don't you _dare_ smirk-and it had been a really bad day, a bad week honestly, and I was most of the way into pulling a double because my loser drugged-out co-worker had done _another_ no-call, no-show and I was desperate for money and...some kid threw their drink all over me and something inside me just snapped."

"What did you do?" he asked.

"I mean, nothing then. It wasn't the kid's fault, it was a toddler more than anything and it really had seemed like an accident, but inside, I knew I was done. I'd intended to put in my two weeks at the end of my shift, but by the time I actually reached the end of that shift, I just said 'I quit', and handed in my apron and nametag, and walked home. I'd been thinking about the military for awhile at that point, they were recruiting hard, this was three years ago, and so yeah, the next day, I told my parents what was up, and they argued with me. But I think they just argued with me out of some kind of sense of responsibility. I mean, my mom was afraid, and my dad was cautious, but in the end, they both knew this made the most sense. Then I walked to the recruitment center and signed up. Next thing I knew, I was shipping out to boot camp."

They reached the bottom of the switchbacks and came to the valley floor. It was just as barren and lifeless down here as it was everywhere else. Well, not totally, he saw as he surveyed the area. Some of the heartier plants clung grimly to life along the muddy shores of the stream.

"Let's check the car," he said, and they headed back up towards the bridge.

The vehicle, which was a dirty white two-door, was flipped over and smashed. Greg crouched in front of it and frowned as he spied two dead bodies inside. Whoever it was must've gotten knocked out, or even trapped, and had frozen to death.

"Jeez," Izzy muttered quietly as she joined him.

"Yeah. Let's get this done," Greg murmured.

They checked around the back, where the trunk had burst open, but apparently it had been empty. Then they awkwardly reached in and pulled out the bodies after disentangling them from the seatbelts, then performed silent postmortem searches. As he checked their pockets, Greg wondered who they were, why they were here, what their circumstances might have been. He had the idea that they might have been out-of-towners, as their clothes were pretty nice. Maybe a couple in their early twenties. The woman was wearing some nice jewelry. It didn't really fit in with what he'd seen so far. God, what a nightmare.

To come 'rough it' out in the authentic wilderness, and then get caught here when all this crap started going down. Or maybe he was wrong, maybe he'd completely misread the situation. Did it really matter right now? They didn't have anything worthwhile on them, so he was kind of inclined to believe that they'd come into this situation under-prepared, and in the end he and Izzy ended up walking away none the richer.

They crossed the shallow stream and began making their way towards the cabin.

A moment later, Greg was opening the front door slowly, his pistol in hand, unsure of what he might find inside the simple structure. It was pretty small. But it was also pretty wrecked. "Whoa," he said quietly as he finished pushing the door open.

"What is it?" Izzy asked.

"It looks like the aftermath of a bad fight."

He stepped in and she joined him. There were two bodies sprawled out on the wooden floor. One had been stabbed in the gut, the other had had its neck slit open. They had both bled profusely. A table had been smashed to pieces, a couch was flipped over, a TV was destroyed. The cabinets in the kitchen were all open. Silently, Greg and Izzy performed another search. It became obvious that someone had been through here already, the place tossed, the bodies pilfered. While Izzy kept searching the cabin, Greg followed a trail of blood leading out the back door. Sure enough, he found a third body off to the right.

Whoever he'd been, he'd made it maybe twenty feet out the door, then evidently died of his wounds. Well, he'd probably have stuff on him, given that he must be the one who'd pilfered the corpses. The last man standing from the conflict. Greg moved forward and crouched by the body. He had stuff in his pockets at least: some tins of sardines and tuna, a lighter, a knife that was bent and basically useless, some basic medical supplies. Greg confiscated it all, shrugging out of his pack and loading it up.

Something shifted up ahead.

Greg looked up as he finished pulling on his backpack. His eyes widened.

"Oh...crap."

A drub was coming his way.

"Izzy..." he said quietly. Nothing. He slowly stood up and took a step back. "Izzy."

"Did you say something?" Izzy called.

Greg caught sight of movement farther off to the right, by the stream, and felt his heart stop dead for a second when he caught sight of _another_ drub. They were _definitely_ coming his way. One of them let out a growl and began coming faster.

"Izzy! _Incoming! Drubs!_ " he screamed as he snatched up his pistol.

Now both of them were coming on fast.

"What?! Dammit! Where?!" she snapped, her voice muffled.

"Out the back! Stay in the cabin! Wait until they move past you! Then hit them from behind!"

"Understood!"

He kept backing up and drew aim on the nearest drub. The big ugly beast was charging for him now. He stopped for a brief second and fired. It was a good shot! The bullet punched it right in one of its eyes and apparently hit it directly in the brain. It went slack and skidded along the ground. Unfortunately, the other drub was making rapid progress. It was on his ass in no time flat. He kept firing but couldn't land a shot that mattered. One went wild, one landed in its huge body, another two went wild, and the final few shots didn't have the desired result. His sidearm was dead. He kept backing up, making it past the threshold, and grabbed for his shotgun. Izzy stepped out right as the drub rushed past, and opened fire.

Her third shot punched through the back of its big head and killed it.

Greg let out his breath in a harsh exhalation and lowered his shotgun. "Son of a bitch," he whispered. "That was too close."

"Did you one-shot that first one?" she asked, looking back.

"Yeah. Lucky shot," he replied.

"Nice. Anything else around?"

"I don't know, let's check."

They spent a minute checking the perimeter and, once they confirmed nothing else had been drawn in by the shots, spent another five minutes searching the cabin. But there was nothing left, and soon they were back on their path.

Before long, they'd found the ladder.

"You think it'll hold?" Izzy asked uncertainly as they stared up at it.

"Only one way to find out," Greg replied.

He mounted the ladder and started climbing.


	13. Chapter 13: Great Expectations

"Holy crap, I see it," Izzy said.

Greg looked up sharply as she broke the silence that had fallen over them once more. They'd settled into a comfortable conversation about whatever came to mind after getting up the ladder (it had held surprisingly well) and resuming their walk along the road. Eventually, the words had petered out, and after a few failed attempts at reigniting the dialogue, they'd simply fallen into quietude, letting the cold desolation wash over them as they walked. He was glad to see that it wasn't weird though. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, more a relaxed one. They weren't speaking because they were okay without it. It was hard to really find someone like that.

"Finally," he muttered.

Greg felt his hopes begin to rise like the fires he'd stoked since coming here, but he tried to tamp those hopes down. The base was more than likely abandoned. They hadn't run into a single survivor on this island, and the place just felt...dead. Derelict. Abandoned. They still didn't know what had caused the initial distress, but if it warranted a subspace distress call to an official UNSC cruiser, there was a good chance that the local military was involved in one form or another. As it was, he didn't see any kind of activity, or hear anything beyond the occasional gust of wind. That might not mean anything though.

The place had a solid wall built around it and the power was almost certainly dead. It had been everywhere else so far. There could be people inside. If there was a place to go in an emergency, it would be this base. It was kind of designed for prolonged survival. The two of them picked up the pace, hurrying down the road towards the outpost.

"You think anyone's actually there?" he asked.

"I kind of doubt it. I feel like we would've seen _someone_ if there was anything resembling an official presence on this island. There might be survivors there, though," Izzy replied.

"That's what I was thinking."

"I hope there's other people."

"Oh, my company's not good enough for you?"

She looked over at him, and for a second he wondered if he'd touched a nerve, but she just grinned and punched his shoulder. "Shut the hell up," she said. "Your company is fine, jackass, I'd just prefer more people for backup."

"You and me both," he agreed.

Two Marines alone against the elements wasn't exactly ideal. They'd do pretty good, probably better than most, but still, no reason not to have more people around. They managed to get down the road, right up to the gate, without a problem. If there were vargs or drubs or volar around, they were keeping their distance. For which Greg was extremely grateful. Already, he'd had more than a lifetime's fill of those awful creatures.

"Someone was here," Izzy murmured as she studied the gate. Greg nodded silently in agreement, it had been broken open by brute force, the lock smashed. "How should we handle this?" she asked softly as they slipped in past the threshold.

"Hostile territory with potential friendlies. Sweep and clear, room by room," he replied, pulling out his shotgun.

"Let's do it."

Their progress was relatively swift, first checking out the perimeter inside the simple wall that surrounded the outpost. Nothing but snow and dirt and pavement. Their first destination after that was a pair of small, detached structures that Greg knew had to be storage sheds. They cleared them out quickly enough, although the fact that they weren't packed full of crates worried him. From there, they moved to the only other detached structure: the motorpool. He opened the door and Izzy stepped in, pistol at ready.

"Looks clear," she said.

He slipped in after her and shut the door.

"Whoa," he murmured as he caught sight of the most obvious thing in the building.

"Jackpot," Izzy said.

There was a cold weather Carrier Warthog, also known as a snow hog, in the center of the motorpool, white and weathered, worn gray in some places.

"That will make things a _lot_ easier," Izzy murmured.

"If it works," Greg replied. "It looks like it was under maintenance."

"Yeah. Okay, let's finish our sweep, then I can assess it," she said, eyeing it hungrily. He agreed and they kept pressing on. They checked the corners of the room, the small bathroom, the pair of small storage rooms, and the workroom. All empty, and again it didn't seem like there was much of anything around. This was definitely not a good sign. Was this base decommissioned? It didn't quite seem like it, but at the very least it must have been being maintained by a skeleton crew. Unless this place had been cleared out _way_ more than he was assuming. But if that was the case, then why hadn't they taken the vehicle? Maybe it was far more busted than he thought. He frowned as they left the motorpool and headed for the main structure, considering it.

It was entirely possible that that solar flare had killed it, like it had killed half of the other technological things on this island. Well, they'd find out eventually. From there, the search was fairly routine. It was a pretty small outpost and would, even at full capacity, support maybe a dozen people. As it was, based on the bedrooms that still had stuff in them, there had been maybe four or five people here. And in the living quarters they made what Greg considered to be a very important discovery as he pulled open a dresser drawer.

"Oh yes," he whispered.

"What, you find a flask of vodka?" Izzy asked.

"No. Uniforms! Fresh uniforms," he replied.

"Oh thank God. I so hope the showers work."

He grunted in agreement, but didn't hold out much hope. So far, there was no power. It was cold in the base, but not unbearable. It was well-built, well-insulated, so they should be able to keep warm without too much trouble. Their next major, and probably most important, discovery was made shortly after when they got into the armory. It was pretty bare, but not empty. There were a dozen magazines for their M6G sidearms, a dozen shells for his shotgun, and a pair of shiny new combat knifes. There were also enough bits and pieces of green ballistics combat armor to cobble together two full sets, including a pair of helmets outfitted for cold weather.

And then there was the infirmary. Also mostly cleaned out, but there was enough supplies there to put together a few more medkits.

Under normal circumstances, Greg would consider this slim pickings. But today, given all that had happened recently, it felt like finding a lost treasure. As an added bonus, they even managed to find a pair of proper backpacks that could hold way more than what he'd been hauling around. The final bit of good news came in the form of the mess hall. It was obvious someone had been through at some point, but they hadn't cleared out everything. There was a good store of clean water, a decent stash of MREs, and a collection of cans, most of which were canned meat and not just beans or peaches, and even a few twelve packs of Mountain Dew Supernova hidden away deep in the pantry. That, particularly, was a good find.

In the end, he and Izzy stood in the control room after close to an hour and a half of searching, unable to keep from smiling.

"All right, Corporal, what do we do now?" Izzy asked.

"You don't have any ideas?" he replied.

"I have plenty. Chain of command dictates you figure this crap out. I'll let you know if you say something stupid," she replied.

"Oh, thank you so much, Lance Corporal."

She smirked. "It's my job."

"Your job is to shut up and follow orders, if I recall."

She stepped closer to him. "Oh is it, now?"

"Well...maybe not _quite_ that cut and dry," he replied.

She regained her smirk. "Better," she said, then she kissed him.

It was a quick kiss, but it was on the lips, and it felt really good. He couldn't help but grin a little stupidly, then he made himself focus. "Okay, okay...first let's go check out the generator. Then let's go check out that snow hog. Then we can reassess based on what we discover."

"Sounds smart to me," Izzy said.

They'd already confirmed that the radio, the security system, everything worthwhile in the command center was dead, no juice at all. Which meant they'd have to find a way to get more power. If that was even possible any longer. They might just be screwed for energy. And if _that_ was the case, then it was going to make everything harder. They tracked down the generator in a room near the back of the base and Izzy spent about twenty minutes checking it over before eventually delivering the bad news to him.

"It's dead."

"Just...dead? Gone?" he replied.

She nodded. "Yeah, it's not coming back. It was overloaded, it looks like. Huge surge of power. Theoretically I could fix it in like...a few weeks... _if_ we had all the right parts. Realistically, we're going to have to go looking for another source of power if we want any."

"We should still make that a priority. Our main mission right now is to get in touch with _someone_ and report our situation, and figure out what the hell is going on out there...so what's our second best option for that?"

"The island has a power plant," she said, shrugging out of her backpack. She pulled her map out and laid it down on a nearby table. He joined her and began studying it. "Here," she said, pointing to the far northeastern corner of the map. He got some reference. Currently they were near the middle of the island, towards the west side, with the mountain itself being roughly the center. The place where they'd crashed and the campgrounds were to the southeast of the mountain. He then actually took a moment to fully study up.

"What else are we looking at here? We haven't really taken the time to see what we're working with," he murmured.

"Well, here's the town, south of the power plant. Farther to the west of us is a garage. Dead north are some docks and what looks like a warehouse. And...honestly there isn't a whole lot else. Just random buildings here or there, probably private property cabins or houses."

He sighed. "All right. Let's go see how that snow hog is doing. I'd really like to get it up and running before having to go anywhere else. It would make it _so_ much easier."

"That it would," she murmured in agreement as she replaced the map and pulled her backpack back on.

They left the generator room and returned to the motorpool. The snow hog was up on a jack, one of its tires missing. Greg found it hard to stand still as Izzy got to investigating the vehicle, given she was the jack-of-all-trades engineer here and he knew...enough to get by in really desperate situations. Sometimes. Mainly, he just knew how to run and gun pretty well, and stay alive in dangerous encounters. Or apparently he knew that, he was still alive, at least. Sometimes, he wished he could actually somehow see, with some objective measure, exactly how much of what he did was luck. But then he was glad he couldn't.

Greg was almost positive that it was disturbingly high.

Another twenty minutes went by, and then Izzy rattled off a list of replacement parts she would need to even bring the vehicle back up to working order, which was the minimum barrier for entry to even see if it still could be turned on. From there, they began a thorough search of the garage, and fell into conversation.

"What do you think it could be?" he asked.

"What what could be?" she replied.

He opened up a toolbox and started rooting around in it, looking for the parts and tools he'd recognized from the list of things they needed. "This mystery threat. I mean, I get the feeling it isn't the solar activity, or sunspot activity, or whatever it's called. I guess it could be..."

"No, they seemed more desperate than that. Or at least that was the impression I got from Brink." She sighed. "I guess I don't know. I don't think it's Covenant, either. This place is pretty out of the way, no real strategic value. Resources...maybe. I guess I don't know how great the mining is on this planet. Man, Wintermute is such a weird name. Who the hell came up with it?"

"Wasn't it in a book?" he asked.

"Which book? I mean, probably. Tons of things were in books..."

"No, I mean, I'm sure I read a book where it was kind of a big deal in the plot, and the book had once been a pretty big deal. It was really old. But it was also probably someone's last name in real life. Um...Neuromancer! That's what it was."

"I haven't heard of it."

"It was a fantastic book, hundreds of years old. Actually, from the late nineteen hundreds. It was a great book. If we make it out of here, I'll track down a copy for you."

A pause. "I'd like that, actually. I used to read all the time, I was a voracious reader. I still do, just...it's harder to. Especially lately. Ah-ha! One of the parts we need. Okay..." she suddenly dumped the toolkit she was hunting through onto the table and then set the parts and tools they'd gathered so far into it. "Put everything you find in here."

They kept working, hunting through every drawer, every shelf, every crate they could find. It was slow work, but given everything else that had been going on recently, Greg was honestly just happy to be doing something simple and straightforward and out of the cold. Eventually, though, it admittedly did start to wear on him. And, in the end, they spent two solid hours hunting through first the motorpool, then the storage sheds, and finally any parts of the base they could think of where there might be spare parts and tools.

And, in the end, they were still one part short, and it was apparently a crucial one.

"So where do you think it might be?" Greg asked as he and Izzy came back into the motorpool and set their latest finds in her toolkit. Once that was done, she snapped it shut and secured it firmly in her backpack.

"That civilian garage we saw on the map isn't that far away. Maybe a thirty minute walk," she replied.

Greg considered it. There was still time left in the day before the sun went down, and there didn't _seem_ to be a storm on the way. But that could change very fast. Part of him really wanted to just bunker down for the night. Make a meal, wash up, get some more sleep. He was exhausted. But a bigger, more powerful part of him knew that no, they should do this now, get it out of the way. Honestly, they should do as much as they could while they still had natural light.

"Okay, let's do it," he said.


	14. Chapter 14: Pit Stop

"Damn," Greg muttered as they stepped back outside.

"What?" Izzy asked immediately, hand resting on the butt of her pistol, looking around.

"Nothing, it's just colder. A lot colder," he replied. "It's not a good sign. And it's getting windier, too."

"Crap," she muttered, looking at the sky. He joined her in doing so. Was it darker? It was somewhere in mid-afternoon right now, or it should be, however long this planet's days lasted. They seemed approximately Earth-normal, but with weather like this, it might as well not matter. "Should we stay?" she asked uncertainly.

"No," Greg replied, "we should press on. We need that part and it could just be getting colder. I don't really feel like getting in the habit of hesitating every time the wind blows."

"I'm not being cowardly," Izzy said harshly. He looked at her, surprised, and she stared back at him, angry, then suddenly she lost the expression and sighed. "I'm sorry, that was...rude. I just thought you were, you know...insulting me."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that-"

"No, I know. Let's just start walking," she said, and abruptly set off.

He followed after her. He'd never quite seen this side of Izzy before. During their interactions that didn't involve shooting bullets at alien assholes, she'd been usually polite, sometimes warm, and at worst a little cold, but not outright hostile. What did that mean? He thought they were doing well: she was at ease around him, they'd been flirting, she'd kissed him. Maybe he was misreading the situation? He wasn't known for his social intelligence.

They walked for about ten minutes before he couldn't keep his silence any longer. "Izzy, did I do something to piss you off?"

"No," she replied immediately, as if she'd been expecting the question. She shook her head. "It has nothing to do with what you've said or did. I'm just...okay, you know how some people get terrible wounds, and instead of healing properly, they never seem to completely heal, and hurt _so_ bad if they get hit the wrong way, even if it's just someone bumping into them on accident?"

He nodded. He'd seen that before. It was a lot less common than he imagined it was hundreds of years ago, with modern medical marvels, but medicine couldn't cure _everything_ , and honestly, some scars stayed painful, no matter how many treatments you gave them. "Yeah, I know what you're talking about," he replied.

"So that's what it's like for me in a way, only with how my perception of people thinking I'm weak or stupid or something. I had to put up with being second guessed, talked down to, or outright insulted for so long that I've built up a good armor against it. Mostly I can ignore it, or throw it right back in their stupid faces, but sometimes..."

"Sometimes you get hit in just the wrong way, and it hurts like hell."

"Yeah. Even if it's an accident. So again, you didn't do anything wrong. I mean really, it only happens anymore with people I..." she hesitated.

"People you what?"

"Trust," she said finally.

"Oh." He paused. "You made that sound like it was hard to admit."

"You can't see why someone like me might hesitate to admit that I trust someone else? People you trust betray you more easily...I mean, not that I think you're going to betray me."

"No, I get it. It's understandable. I trust you, too."

She hesitated, looking like she wanted to say a little more, then just nodded. "Good. I'm glad." She shivered suddenly. "God _damn_ it _is_ getting cold," she muttered, looking angrily at the sky. The wind was gusting more powerfully now, and it had teeth, the cold chewing into them despite their newly acquired helmets (although they hadn't changed armor yet, they had at least put the helmets on, and discovered they still mostly worked, and came pre-loaded with a map of the island). The farther on they walked, the more paranoid he became about the cold.

Was another storm on rapid approach?

He could understand Izzy's reaction at least. No Marine wanted to be called cowardly or timid, even through implication, (or maybe that was worse, it was almost easier to take when someone just said something straight to your face, rather than them trying to be sly and BS their way around the insult just so that they could have plausible deniability when you called them out on it). He genuinely hadn't meant that, he was more concerned about becoming too hesitant himself. The situation was dire, and could actually turn lethal extremely quickly. But they still had things to do, and it was a hell of a thing to balance getting stuff done and taking risks against taking unnecessary risks, or too few. A lot of the time, all you could do was roll the dice and hope.

It felt like he was doing that a lot just lately.

* * *

"Man, this place looks like crap," Izzy muttered.

Greg sighed as they came to a full halt in front of the two-story structure. It did, indeed, look like crap. Several of the windows were broken out, the garage door was open about halfway, and the whole thing looked like it had been built about a hundred years ago, and no one had done a whole hell of a lot to upkeep it.

"Hopefully it has what we need," he replied.

They settled into their standard procedure, first making a complete circuit of the structure's exterior, ensuring that nothing was waiting for them. Although really anything could be waiting in the treeline that sat about ten meters back from the rear and sides of the building. This island seemed to have a lot of dead forests. Once they were about as sure as they were going to be that nothing was outside, they turned their attention inwards.

As they approached that stuck-open garage door, Greg's instincts twitched. He hesitated about the same time Izzy did.

"What-" he began, then something cut loose with a growl from inside.

"Crap," Izzy whispered harshly, pulling out her pistol.

He did the same. It sounded like a varg. He heard padding footsteps suddenly, more than one set, and then...nothing. They backed up a few feet, waiting. There were definitely vargs inside the garage. The pair stood there beside each other, pistols at ready. For several seconds, nothing happened. The wind blew. The tension mounted.

And then a quartet of vargs raced out from beneath the half-closed garage door in a gray blur. Greg's pulse spiked violently and painfully as he opened fire. The first shot was good, nailing one of the vargs dead on in the skull and dropping it in a spray of alien blood. It hit the blacktop and skidded, but the others were so fast. Izzy managed to clip one's face, which sent it running and yelping. The other two barreled onward like gray-furred bullets. Greg kept firing but they were too fast and suddenly one of them was upon him.

He felt his body react faster than his mind and pistol-whipped the creature directly in the face while simultaneously sidestepping. There was an awful crunch and the creature hit the ground behind him. He whirled around and saw it trying to get back to its feet, but he didn't give it the opportunity, aiming and firing, putting a bullet in the back of its head. Twisting as he heard another yelping whine and feet beating the blacktop, he saw the final varg rushing away after the other that had fled. Izzy was reloading.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Fine," she replied tightly.

"No bites?"

"No bites," she confirmed. "You?"

"I'm fine," he replied after double-checking. He let out his breath in a long sigh. "Goddamn. Too close."

"Too close," she agreed quietly.

"Let's get inside before they come back."

She nodded and they ducked carefully into the garage. Greg studied it quickly as they entered, finding a mostly empty room with a lot of crap proliferating across all the open spaces. There were two repair bays, both of them vacant, and a lot of shelves, tables, boxes, and desks all along the outer wall of the room.

"This is gonna take awhile," Izzy muttered.

"Probably. Since you know what we're looking for more than I do, why don't you start the search, and I'll look through the rest of the building and see if there's anything worth taking, or worrying about," he suggested.

"All right."

He stepped out of the repair area in through the only other door, finding himself in a little reception room with a TV bolted to the wall, a row of uncomfortable looking chairs beside a frozen water dispenser, a broken vending machine, and an empty coffeepot. There was also a front desk with a pair of doors behind it. One led to a squalid bathroom that didn't have anything of mention in it, and the other led to a narrow stairwell. He moved up it, weapon at ready, and pushed through the door he found at the top.

It led to a small apartment, he saw. Clearing it out, Greg found the main room to be a combination living room/bedroom/kitchen/dining room, and also found a small closet, and a full bathroom that wasn't a whole hell of a lot bigger than the one downstairs, only sporting a small shower cubicle as an addition. Obviously this was where the mechanic had lived. It didn't look like the happiest of places, but it probably saved a lot of money, at least. He wondered where this mechanic was now. If they were dead somewhere on the island.

There was a really good chance of that.

The place was secure and, like pretty much everywhere else, cleaned out. Maybe the mechanic had seen the situation for what it was, loaded up on supplies, and gone walking down to the military outpost. Only to find nothing there. Or maybe they'd teamed up with whoever was there, and they had gone in search of help or a way to restore power or even a way off the island. After the search, he returned to Izzy, who was still rooting around among the crates and shelves.

"Any luck?" he asked.

"Not yet," she replied.

"All right. I'll help you look."

* * *

An hour later, they had good news and bad news.

The good news was that they'd found the part, and they would at least be able to _try_ to turn on the snow hog now. The bad news was that they'd gambled and lost on whether or not they could get back to the outpost today, because while they were looking, another storm blew in and turned the outside world into a frozen white hell.

"So we're spending the night here?" Izzy asked as they looked out the front window of the reception area.

"Yep," Greg replied. "No way in hell we're risking that."

"We've got these helmets now..."

"I still think it's too dangerous. We already gambled and lost once, I'd rather not push our luck. Right now, we're in a safe place. There was another wood-burning stove and a decent supply of firewood upstairs, and a bed. We can settle in for the night, and hit the road at daybreak, provided the storm has died down."

"All right," Izzy said after a moment of contemplation. "Let's see this apartment."

They headed upstairs. He got a fire going while she explored the squalid apartment. "Pretty small, huh?" he asked.

"I've lived in worse, admittedly," Izzy replied.

"Yeah, same," he murmured.

Once the fire was going, he found a pan and started frying up some of the imitation beef they'd gotten from the outpost.

"What's for dinner?" she asked, taking off her pack and boots and sitting down on the bed.

"I am going to attempt to make hamburgers."

"Holy crap, seriously?"

"Yeah. I've got this fake beef here that I can make into patties, and there are some not completely stale buns here, and I even managed to find some ketchup and mustard packets in one of the drawers. So these should at least resemble hamburgers."

"No cheese?" she asked.

"There's cheese _spread_ in the MREs..."

"I think I'll be okay without that."

He had to agree. Minutes went by. The apartment went from cold to tolerable, then from tolerable to actually kind of comfortable. While he cooked, Izzy double-checked the area, locking down the door at the base of the stairs, then the apartment's front door itself. She checked the windows, making sure they were locked, and pulled the heavy curtains that rested over them. Once the food was done, they sat together at a tiny table and ate and drank some of the cans of Supernova he'd taken with him. He'd also set a few bottles of water near the stove to heat up, since he really wanted the opportunity to wash himself again.

A shower would be paradise, but even just a simple wash went a long way.

They didn't talk much over their meal, and he had an idea that something was weighing on Izzy's mind. Finally, she spoke. "So..."

"So?" he asked.

She chewed on her lip for a moment, studying him. "When I sleep with someone, I'd say about three quarters of the time, I can tell right away afterwards if I like or don't like them. Then, maybe another twenty percent of the time, it takes a little bit longer to figure out. But then there's five percent that's special, and they're so rare. I haven't run into anyone in this category for a few years. What makes them special is that I like them so much, that I get paranoid that I'm missing something, and I need more time to figure out what that is, or if I'm just being overcautious. And...you are in that particular category."

"Oh," he said, after a moment.

She laughed and rolled her eyes. "Wow, you like underwhelming responses, don't you?"

"I more...don't know how else to respond. Um, I'm glad that you like me so much. Have you found anything concerning?"

"Honestly, no. You seem really...genuine. You have a lot of good qualities. And I do feel like I've gotten to know you decently well over the past three months. So...I'm not really saying that I'm prepared to be in, like, a full-blown relationship, I mean, if that's something you're even looking for, but...I _would_ like to keep this going. Would you?"

"Definitely," he replied, because he did. He liked Izzy a lot. He could see that she had a few...hangups, but who didn't? And as much as he liked her, he respected her more. "I would very much like that."

"Okay, good. Now, one other thing...it doesn't matter much right now, because it's just the two of us, but I _would_ like to keep this exclusive, emotionally and sexually speaking...even though I'm admitting now that I'm not sure if I'm ready for a full-on relationship. Which I realize might be kind of unreasonable, but nonetheless, are my terms."

"I'm okay with this. You're worth waiting for," he replied.

Her smile became less cavalier and more genuine, and even shy. "Well...thank you." She lost it suddenly. "But I'm holding you to this, Greg. Cheat on me and I _will_ kick your ass."

"Deal," he replied, which made her laugh. "I've done some bad things, but I can at least say I've never cheated."

"Good then. So, uh...you wanna have sex?"

"Do you need to ask?" he replied.

"I guess not."


	15. Chapter 15: The Path To Power

"Come on, please work..." he heard Izzy murmur as she settled into the driver's seat of the snow hog. Greg found himself thinking exactly the same thing. They'd put in a lot of effort. Well, mostly Izzy had put in the effort. He'd just done whatever grunt work she'd assigned him. But all the parts were finally in place.

Izzy hit the power button.

There was a second delay, just long enough for him to really begin to worry, and then the snow hog kicked to life.

"Yes!" they both cried at the same time.

They waited a bit longer, Izzy checking over the readouts built into the dashboard, to confirm that it was actually going to _stay_ running. And it did. As the seconds ticked on, Greg felt a tremendous sense of relief washing over him.

"It looks stable," she said. "A few of the gauges are dipping towards not great, but this is definitely doable. We should be able to use this to drive across the island. Holy crap. That is a huge load off my mind."

Greg nodded in agreement. "Think we should go now?" he asked.

"Yes, we should," Izzy replied.

He walked over to the garage door and hauled it open after hitting the manual release catch, had her roll the vehicle out, then closed it firmly behind them. They'd already tossed their bags into the cargo area behind the two front seats, between the front cabin and the rear troop hold. He climbed up into the passenger's seat and buckled in. Then Izzy drove them out of the base, (they'd left the main gate open), and hit the road.

It was a little after midday now. After an extremely pleasant night, they'd had a good sleep, and an also pleasant morning, they'd dressed, grabbed a quick bite to eat, and then had made the walk back to the military outpost as soon as they confirmed there was nothing dangerous hanging around and the weather had cleared up. It had been a nice, quick walk and as soon as they'd arrived, they had decided to finally take the time to change into their new uniforms and suits of armor. They'd also taken the opportunity to wash up again and finally, feeling as refreshed as he ever had since hitting snow on this iceball of a planet, Greg had joined her in the garage.

They had a plan of action now, and he was feeling pretty solid about it.

Outside, it was clear skies and low winds. Basically paradise compared to what he'd been experiencing since landing on this damned rock. Honestly, everything was different, he realized as they drove down the road at a modest pace, wary of wildlife and anything that might be clogging up the route. If they had to, they could take this off-road at least. This place almost seemed actually nice, now that he was in the passenger's seat of a functional military-issue vehicle. Probably not having to walk everywhere was boosting his mood mightily, but also the fact that something was finally going right. It seemed like everything had gone wrong so far.

Well…

He looked at Izzy. Not everything.

" _What are you looking at?"_ she asked. Her voice piped in to him over the radio inside the helmet. It seemed safer to use, in case he spotted something and needed to report it immediately, instead of hoping to be heard over the engine.

"You, obviously." He paused. "So is it just me, or is the sex like...really amazing?"

She laughed. _"It's not just you."_

"Okay, good. Because I'm not BSing you, our sessions together are goddamned _phenomenal._ I wonder what it is."

" _I think...we just fit together really well."_

"Well obviously."

She snorted. _"That's not what I meant, you ass. What I'm_ trying _to say, is that I think we fit together really well emotionally, as people. We connect."_

"I'm sorry, I was just joking. Yes, I agree. That's honestly what I was hoping the case was. I mean, you're obviously really good at it, and I'd like to think I'm pretty good..."

" _You're fairly decent,"_ Izzy replied.

He sighed. "Gee, thanks."

" _Your point?"_

"We're good at sex, but yeah, I think it's so great because we're really connecting on an emotional level." He paused. "Does that...concern you?"

" _A little,"_ she admitted after a moment. _"I guess I'm worried about you dying. The more time we spend together, the more it would hurt."_

"There is that...is it worth it?"

" _So far, yeah. If it keeps going the way it's going, then yeah."_

"Good to know."

They drove on, hitting the canyon they'd had to cross manually and driving alongside it. He studied the landscape as they drove through it. Mostly there were icy fields and stands of dead trees, though it was warm enough today that the ice was melting. He was sure it would all refreeze tonight when the temperatures dropped back down to miserable. Or even today, if another storm blew in. But he didn't let those thoughts trouble him. Not right now. He wanted to be happy, and Greg was positive that there was a lot of misery ahead of him.

So he let himself be happy, and they drove on.

* * *

"Do you see anything?" Izzy asked quietly. They'd agreed to turn off the radios when they didn't absolutely need them to conserve battery life, given they had no idea if they were going to get a way to recharge or replace the batteries.

"No," Greg murmured as he studied the area around them.

They were currently at their single detour for the day: a warehouse next to some old docks.

Neither looked particularly inviting or hopeful, but he wanted to make sure. One of the first things he was going to do, (if it was even possible), once they got the power back on, was try to perform a sweep of the island with a scanner, hunting for other survivors. It would be nice to at least _know_ if they were totally alone on this miserable island. But first came comms. That was top priority. At present, though…

"No, no signs of life," he confirmed, deactivating the zoom function on his helmet. "Let's get this over with."

"Yep," Izzy murmured.

They hopped out of the snow hog and started making their way towards the rickety docks first. The pair moved slowly down the gentle dirt and snow incline that led to the docks. Ahead of him, Greg could see the vast expanse of the ocean. The shores were largely frozen up for a few dozen feet out or so, but beyond that, the waves lapped gently at the artificial ice shore. Already, it was breaking apart. He stopped paying attention to it. The waves were almost hypnotic. Greg scanned the area as they approached the docks.

A simple gravel road ran down from the main road off to their right, going past the warehouse, terminating in a lot in front of the docks. All he heard as they headed in was the crunching of snow beneath their boots, the soft whispering of the wind, and quiet respiration of the ocean. It was actually a pretty peaceful place.

So what was he missing?

Because Greg was positive he was missing something...or something was waiting for him. Or maybe he was just being paranoid. Ever since that fall out the back of a crashing Pelican he'd been more paranoid than usual. They hit the gravel lot and began moving towards the docks. He could see a stash of something at one end of them. A few crates and some coolers, and even what might have been the barrel of a rifle peeking over the edge of the stack of coolers.

"That looks like supplies," he said, making for the dock. "Watch my back."

"Got it," Izzy replied.

They reached the edge of the dock, which was accessible only via a single wooden pathway that was broad but poorly kept. He began making his way down it, but hesitated as the wood creaked uncertainly beneath his feet. That wasn't a good sign. He considered it, then decided to keep going. It didn't seem all _that_ unstable-

The wooden planks broke beneath his feet, dumping him into icy waters.

Everything seemed to happen in rapidly flashing snapshots after that. He screamed, and grabbed for the docks, but gravity worked against him and dropped him too quickly. The icy water was like getting hit by a stun baton, making his entire body freeze up. He heard Izzy shout his name. Then Greg was thrashing, struggling fiercely, and his feet hit dirt. He opened his eyes, the world blurry and painful around him, his helmet already filled with water, and he knew that he wasn't all that far away from the shore. He could see the slanting shoreline.

The ice, though…

Hopefully it was thin enough, because he didn't have time. Then he was kicking against the dirt and rock beneath the water. His muscles and lungs burned. Some indeterminate amount of time later, what couldn't have been more than ten or fifteen seconds, he was hitting ice. Greg shoved violently against it, felt it give, then crack, and then finally he broke through. He was close to the shore. He kept pushing, forcing his way up and out.

And suddenly his hands were being grabbed, and he was yanked fiercely up and out of the water. Greg soon found himself staggering along the dirt beach, shivering violently.

"God, Greg, we have to get you warm _now,_ " Izzy was saying.

He tried to respond, but nothing was coming out. His body felt like it kept wanting to pass out. "Come on, come on, hurry!" she urged him as she helped him along, guiding him across the gravel lot and towards the warehouse. It was the only shelter around. It seemed to take a thousand years and he felt his entire body shutting down.

He felt like he was dying.

"Almost there...almost there...just hold on, Greg!"

He muttered something, trying to sound reassuring, but he doubted it worked. The world seemed to shift and suddenly they were heading into a darkened, cavernous room. They must be in the warehouse now. Everything was fading. He knew he had to get warm and _very_ soon, or he was going to freeze to death really fast.

"Damn!" Izzy snapped. "Greg, I have to set you down. Something's in here with us."

He grunted as he was set down quickly by Izzy, barely feeling it. He knew he had to defend himself if something was in here. Greg pushed himself, forced himself to focus. This was life or death. Trembling with effort, he at least was in an upright position, as she'd put his back against something solid and sturdy. Reaching down, his hand mostly numb, he rested it on the grip of his pistol. It was still in its holster.

He began trying to pull it out. Something growled and then a gunshot sounded, followed by a few more. He heard Izzy shout. In the dim light, he could see the warehouse interior around him. Darkness was seeping into his vision, but he saw shapes moving around, sleek, dark things with glowing blue eyes. Oh hell, a group of nightwalkers must have taken up residence in this place. He finally managed to get his fingers around his pistol.

Which was good, because one was coming for him.

Izzy was shouting and firing up a storm, and he heard several fierce growls and pounding footfalls. Muzzle flare lit up the surrounding area. Yes, one was definitely advancing on him. "Come on," he muttered, "come and get it you son of a bitch."

He was getting a little bit of sensation back in his hand, enough that he could actually grip his gun and bring it up out of the holster. The nightwalker was getting closer, and Izzy seemed to have her hands full. He was going to have to deal with this particular situation on his own. Muttering to himself, Greg took aim as best he could.

The nightwalker pounced.

He squeezed the trigger.

It smashed into him, and he heard Izzy shout his name again before being consumed by darkness.

* * *

Greg came back to the world slowly.

Reality seemed to slip back into his sphere of awareness in gentle waves. He became aware of things gradually, bit by bit. There was warmth, first. A deeply comforting warmth. And then he heard the crackling of a fire somewhere very nearby. There was pain too, but it was distant. Somewhere else, he heard movement, vague and seemingly faraway. Light filtered into his vision, dimly gray at first, but eventually becoming a redness beyond his closed lids.

Greg opened his eyes.

He saw a fire, very close by. He was wrapped up in something that was very thick and warm. In fact, it was kind of smothering. Slowly, he got out from beneath it and sat up. Looking around, his vision adjusting, he saw dark, unmoving heaps scattered across the dusty concrete floor of the warehouse. The nightwalkers. There were a good six or seven of them. Slowly, he patted himself down, wondering if it had gotten to him. But he couldn't find any cuts or bites. His helmet, he realized, was missing.

He looked around and saw it was nearby, resting on the floor.

"Izzy?" he asked.

A pause. "Greg?!" Then running footsteps from somewhere deeper in the warehouse.

She appeared from between two piles of huge crates, and she was a deeply welcome sight. He felt a tremendous relief flow through him as he saw her jog over.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She laughed. "I'm fine, Greg. I was terrified I was going to lose you," she replied, coming and crouching beside him.

"What...happened?" he asked.

"Well, you fell through the ice, I saved your ass, dragged you to the warehouse, fought off a pack of nightwalkers, then started you a fire and began searching the place. Also, you managed to kill one of them on your own, apparently."

"Huh...okay, that's what I figured. I just wanted to make sure I hadn't missed anything. It was a...strange experience," he murmured. He shifted around, then sighed. "Dammit, my clothes are still wet."

"Yeah, I think it'll take a little while. Lucky for _you_ however, I packed a spare uniform. And managed to find a roll of paper towels. Not exactly the most ideal way to dry off, but it'll get the job done."

"Probably a good idea we get this over with sooner rather than later," Greg said as she passed him the paper towels, then took off her pack and started digging around in it.

"If you want to wait, I think we can afford a bit longer," Izzy replied uncertainly.

He sighed. "I'd like to, but...I can rest in the vehicle."

"Okay."

She passed him a stack of clothes and he got to work.

* * *

Half an hour later, they were driving again, making good time towards the power plant. Given the fact that he had nearly frozen to death, he was feeling...okay. His whole body ached dully, but it felt good to be dry, warm, and in a fresh uniform. He was deeply grateful that all his gear was waterproof. His pistol and shotgun still worked, his helmet still functioned, although he was really finding it frustrating that it hadn't actually acted as a sealant against the water. Then again, it was just a basic model meant to keep out the cold, not actually atmospherically sealed. Greg shifted in his seat. Up ahead, he could see the power plant.

It was a large, concrete rectangle that sat against the backdrop of dead trees and icy fields, surrounded by a worn iron fence topped with coils of barbed wire. Something was bugging him, though, as they drove up.

Finally, he had it. "How'd you get that fire going so fast?" he asked.

"It was already there. I mean, the necessary resources. It was obvious that someone had made camp there at some point over the last few days, although there was no sign of anyone around when I checked."

"Did you find anything useful?" he asked.

"Not really. Just a bit more food, a few bottles of painkillers. I didn't have enough time to do a very thorough search, though," she replied.

Izzy pulled to a stop as they came into the weather-corroded blacktop parking lot. There were no other vehicles around. Greg stood up in his seat and surveyed the area, hunting for threats. He saw some vargs roaming off in the distance, and a volar was sailing through the air even farther off, and there was what looked like a drub crossing the road they'd come from maybe three quarters of a mile back.

But nothing hanging around here.

"Clear," he said and hopped out of the vehicle.

"You sure you're all right?" Izzy asked as she joined him.

"I'm fine," he replied. "I think it'll take a bit to fully get back to normal, though. Everything still kind of hurts."

"I bet. I've never gone under the ice like that. I've been shot, stabbed, burned, and electrocuted once."

"Same, except for electrocuted."

"How does it stack up?"

"Definitely at the low end. I mean, it's its own special kind of hell, but I'm already shaking it off. A little harder to shake off a hole in your body."

They slipped in through the main gate and made a quick perimeter check, moving along the exterior of the building. In the back was a collection of power distribution nodes. None of them were humming, and two of the eight of them looked burned out.

"Not a good sign," Izzy murmured as they checked them out.

"What do you think our odds of getting any power are?" he replied.

"I don't know, I still need to check the actual system. They _should_ have at least a simple backup battery to get the basic internal systems up and working. Come on."

They finished their sweep and then headed inside. The power plant was a lonely place, and it didn't take long to clear the first part of the building. There was a small bunkhouse set up, meaning that whoever worked here must live here for the duration. What a bad place to live. Supplies were minimal, as it appeared obvious that someone had been through here. Where were all these people _going_? Maybe to the town, it seemed like the most logical choice after the military outpost. Or maybe a lot of them had made it off the island.

How, though?

Most of the rest of the building after the living quarters was technical stuff, rooms packed with equipment and machinery and tech gear he didn't recognize. Izzy stopped in the third room they came by and stepped inside.

"Can you finish the search? This is where I need to be," she asked.

"Yeah. Watch your ass," he replied.

"You've been doing that enough for both of us," she replied as she detached her toolkit from her belt and set it on a nearby table.

"Hard to help it," he replied.

"I didn't say it was a problem."

He laughed, then left her to it and recommenced his search of the power plant. The place was a silent, solitary place that reminded him a little of a tomb. For some reason, he felt like an archaeologist, exhuming an ancient structure, hunting for clues of the past. It was a powerfully lonely feeling, one he was at least somewhat familiar with, given all the derelict, abandoned, forsaken places he'd had to haunt to survive in this galaxy at war, but the effect was lessened with Izzy nearby. Especially now that she wasn't just another survivor, nor even just a fellow Marine. She was...more than a friend now, he thought.

But he carefully walled off those ruminations for now. Had to focus, plus, he didn't want to let himself get carried away and maybe try to push the relationship too far too fast. He was happy to let her set the pace. Greg had learned the hard way a few years ago that that was his problem. He allowed thoughts to run rampant in his mind, and the less you applied discipline to your own mind, the easier the process of thinking becoming acting became. Once he identified that problem, he began to work on the issue at its root source, nipping it in the bud as often as he could. It was almost reflexive now, and reflexive actions were much easier to take. A good thing, if you taught yourself well, a bad thing, if you let anger or fear run you.

He remembered an old proverb, he couldn't honestly remember where he'd heard it from or who had said it, but it was just one of those things you picked up on the road of life. This one had stuck with him almost more than any other. It was that there were two wolves living inside of everyone. Good and evil. And the natural question was: which one won? The answer was as simple as it was elegant: the one you fed.

He'd fed his evil wolf for a long time, but he was done with that now. It would never starve: it was an undying thing, an elemental force that would live on in him so long as he drew breath. But he didn't have to comply with it, didn't have to cooperate with that evil in the slightest. No, he would strive only to feed his good wolf from now on. Over the past few years, he'd actually felt like he was just north of deserving to be alive, just north of worthless. And that was a good feeling, after spending so many years hating yourself.

Greg didn't want to lose that.

More importantly, he wanted to _earn_ it, and keep earning it.

He completed his sweep of the area, finding nothing but dead machinery and dim rooms. And, in one room, a frozen corpse. Some poor bastard had gone to sleep in here and apparently never woken up. Greg patted him down, but it was obvious that either he hadn't been alone, or he hadn't remained undiscovered. Either way, he'd been stripped of anything useful. He returned to Izzy and found that she had at least the room she was in lit up.

"Hey, holy crap, power," he said.

"Yep," she replied, sounding very pleased. "The backup power reserves are still online, and this readout is telling me that we aren't _completely_ screwed. I'll need some more time, but preliminary reports are showing me that we _should_ be able to at least power the military outpost. Which I think we should do, because we're going to need it for both comms and a sensor sweep, to see if we really are the last sorry bastards left on this island."

"Yeah," he agreed. "How long?"

"Probably about half an hour, rough guess, then we can go."

"All right, I'll keep watch."

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Hello, readers. I'm sorry to say that I need to put this and all works on hold for a little while. A bunch of irritating stuff has come up kind of all at once in my life and I just need some time to sort it out. Sorry. I'll be back when I can.


	16. Chapter 16: Return to Darkness

"Okay, moment of truth," Izzy muttered as she crouched before the military outpost's main power distribution network. She was finishing up some minor repairs to one of the junction boxes. Greg waited impatiently, standing behind her, glancing occasionally into the hallway beyond and out the window directly across from them. He'd caught movement there a moment ago and it had turned out to be something he hadn't seen yet. Basically this world's version of a deer. Its fur was pale gray and its four eyes were tinted green. It lacked any kind of antlers, though. He'd pointed it out to Izzy, who said she'd encountered some already and they were harmless, pretty much acted like real deer, ran away at the slightest hint of trouble.

It was back now with a friend, poking around out there, looking for food probably. In a way, they were good warning indicators. They wouldn't be so chill if they were vargs or drubs about. Greg suppressed a sigh as he felt a wave of intense lethargy roll through him. He was exhausted, and it wasn't even dark yet. Izzy had managed to make the power station run, and they'd found basically a giant, glorified switchboard. They'd shut down everything except for the military outpost and the comms tower, which they still didn't know where it was, although Greg was positive it was perched somewhere on the mountain.

Izzy closed the little door on the junction box and stood. She reached out and punched a few buttons on one of the control panels, hesitated, then threw a switch. The distribution network hummed suddenly to life.

"Yes," she whispered, and immediately moved over to a small workstation and began typing rapidly at it. Greg waited further, thinking about their next move. They were going to search the outpost's database, if that was an option, to discover what the hell had happened here, and figure out if the comms tower was available. A few moments passed, and Izzy finished her work.

"Okay, status report. The outpost has power and I've shut off all the extraneous stuff. So most of the base still won't have lights or heat, but our bedroom will."

"Major bonus," he said.

"Yes. I've also powered up the database and the main control room. It's also talking with the power plant, so I've got a decent estimate of how much power we have left. Which is to say: not much. Even running at minimum, we've got maybe two days left to power both the base and the comms tower. So, let's go see if we can pull anything from the database," she replied.

He nodded and they left the power distribution room, then quickly navigated the outpost. Despite his intense lethargy, Greg was at least in good spirits. He always felt good when progress was being made. Although he was getting dizzy, and a headache had been coming on for about an hour now, and it wasn't going away. He was genuinely not looking forward to having to leave this base. Although if all went well, they might not have to do for the rest of the day. Of course, when was the last time _all_ had went well?

They came to the control room and Izzy immediately settled in at the primary work console. Greg sat down heavily in the nearest seat.

"You doing okay?" she asked. "You look really bad, Greg."

"Just a headache," he muttered.

"Headaches don't make you pale and jittery. I think you need to rest. You went through the ice, on top of all the other crap that's been happening."

"Well, let's just see what's ahead of us," he replied.

She grunted in reply and kept working. When she spoke up again several minutes later, Greg had actually been in the process of dozing off, and wondered if he really _did_ need to rest. As in, _needed_ to rest.

"I've got something, but unfortunately it's hardly anything. There was an evacuation order issued about two days before we arrived, but the actual order itself was really vague. Probably not to freak people out. So that sucks for information. Unfortunately, whatever hit us also hit this base at least partially. Either that or the power outage and maybe all the crap weather corroded something crucial. The point is: a lot of the data is lost or scrambled. I can try and sort through it, but it'll take time," she explained.

"And the communications?"

"That's the bad news. It's not responding. But, I mean, the good news is that the power station reports that it's receiving power, and I now know where it actually is, so theoretically we should be able to go to it and fix it."

"What about the scanners? Can we see if anyone else is on this island?" he asked.

"I started running them as soon as I sat down," she replied. "And the results...are in now," she murmured, frowning. She heaved a sigh. "No," she said, slowly shaking her head as she studied the screen, "there are only two human life signs on this entire island."

"Dammit," he muttered, sighing. He'd been secretly hoping that there was _someone_ left alive _somewhere_. But apparently it was too much to hope for.

"Let's go," Greg said, standing up. The room swung suddenly and violently, and he stumbled backwards, knocking over the chair and, luckily, getting his back up against a nearby wall without falling on his ass and looking like an idiot.

"Maybe we should call it a day," Izzy replied.

Greg closed his eyes, shook his head, and straightened slowly back. "No, I can handle. We don't have time and if we hurry, there's probably still enough daylight left to get there, fix it, and get back, and the weather looks decently clear."

"Greg, no," Izzy said, walking over to him. He opened his mouth. " _No,_ " she said firmly. "Greg, you are doing the exact same thing you yelled at me for. You're cutting corners and rushing off without thinking about it. What happens if we run into something on the way there? The way back? What if the car dies? The weather turns bad? What if we get there and it's an hour hike up to the tower? Or it takes me awhile to fix it? Or we don't even have the proper tools and spare parts? That's too many variables. So we're staying here, and we're setting out in the morning _if_ the weather looks suitable."

"...I didn't _yell_ at you about it," he replied.

She laughed. "Holy God, Greg, you know what I mean. Am I wrong?"

He sighed. "No, you're not wrong. I just..."

"Don't want to feel like a failure. I get it. If this were a desperate situation and we genuinely didn't have the time, I think you could do it. You're tough enough."

Now it was his turn to laugh, although slightly bitterly. "I don't need an ego boost. I mean, it's appreciated."

"That's fair. That wasn't really a comment on you, more of just a kind of...I guess a reaction based on most of my experience with guys. You know, it's hilarious, in an awful kind of way, how so many guys rag on women for being too fragile and emotional, but I can't tell you how many dudes I've seen lose their shit at the slightest provocation. Like, I mean flipping over tables and punching walls and screaming in people's faces. Like, how is _that_ not fragile?"

"I know what you mean," he replied, right the chair and sitting back down in it, rubbing his head. "That's a dichotomy I've noticed."

"The amount I've _not_ punched assholes in the face far, _far_ outweighs the amount of times I have. Do you know I've had guys tell me they hope I get raped? Like, more than once. More than a dozen times. Probably over a hundred times. What kind of piece of shit do you have to be to not only genuinely want that, but to then _actually say it to a person?_ "

"People are monsters, sometimes," Greg murmured.

"Yeah. I guess so." She sighed. "This is depressing me. So, we're staying in for the day. And I'm going to run power to the infirmary, and get you checked out, and then we're eating, and then sleeping. Because you aren't the only one who's exhausted."

He considered it, then slowly nodded. "Okay. And thanks. I appreciate the help."

She smiled and offered him a hand. "We help each other. That's what being a Marine's about."

He took her hand and let her pull him up. "And what being in a relationship's about."

"That's true," she replied. "Come on."

* * *

"Okay, your turn," Izzy said.

"Truth."

"Hmm...okay. How'd you lose your virginity?" she asked.

He laughed. "Come on, really? That's what you're asking?"

"Yes. Don't try to weasel out of it. You chose truth, I chose that question. Pony up," she replied firmly, staring at him from across the table. They were sitting together before the scattered remains of a big meal, and it was admittedly hard to keep focused. The exhaustion was getting worse, although the conversation was helping.

"Fine, okay, but it's disappointing."

"I'll be the judge of that," Izzy replied with a smirk. She seemed to be taking a perverse delight in this exchange. Probably because he was bad at this game.

"I had my first girlfriend over one day. We'd been dating for two months at that point. Dad was out drinking, mom was working late, and we started kissing, and that became groping, and that...turned into sex. She asked me if I wanted to, and I mean I did, obviously, so we, you know, did it."

"Was it disappointing?" she asked.

"That's two questions."

"I know. Was it?"

"Yes and no. I mean, it was kind of frustrating, especially when it didn't last all that long, but what do you expect? I was a horny teenager and we didn't have to use protection because she was lucky enough to be on birth control."

"There _is_ a pretty big difference between the two," Izzy replied. "Okay, your turn. Truth."

"Have you ever been in an open relationship?" he asked.

"Kinda sorta."

"What kind of BS answer is that?" he asked.

"Fair enough. I've more been in casual relationships that were understood we could see other people. But like a committed, serious one that was open? No, I haven't. I'm not sure I could, I guess. I mean, I like the idea but...man, I guess it'd just be too much. Then again, how long has it been since I've had a real relationship? Too long. Your turn."

"I still get another question," he replied.

She sighed. "Yeah?"

"Hmm..." He yawned suddenly and blinked a few times. "God, I'm tired."

"I can tell, you look half-dead. Maybe we should head to bed, because there's something I want to do before you're too tired to do it."

"Oh?"

"Don't 'oh?' me, you know exactly what I want," she said, staring at him.

"I'm afraid I don't. Perhaps you should say it out loud."

"You are _not_ going to be like this," she growled, leaning forward.

He tried, and failed, not to smirk. "Like what?"

"Quit being difficult or it's not going to happen."

"Oh come on, Izzy. Is it so hard to just say it out loud?"

"No, it isn't. It's that you're trying to get me to do it. Those are two different things."

"Okay, that's a fair point. Shall we adjourn?"

She snorted. "Did you really just say 'adjourn'? Whatever. Want to know a great side effect of having power again?" He nodded. "We have access to a real shower."

Greg's eyes widened, and then he immediately stood up and began heading to the living quarters. Izzy shot after him.

* * *

Greg slept for almost fourteen hours that night.

After waking up, having some fun with Izzy in the shower, and grabbing some breakfast, he felt the best he had so far. Beyond feeling refreshed, he felt almost supercharged, almost desperately eager for action. He took over driving duties today, and after confirming the weather was still good, they drove out to the comms tower. Well, drove to where it was accessible from. It was perched on a plateau accessible via a single mountain path.

It was a long, somewhat miserable walk. Greg's good mood wasn't extinguished by it, but certainly it was dampened a bit. There was a fence meant to provide the bare basics of safety, but it had been damaged and corroded in places and he didn't trust it at all. To make matters more uncomfortable, there were several volar wheeling around barely fifty meters out. But as they made their way up, the huge birds of prey kept their distance and their peace. After what felt like ages, they finally reached the comms tower.

It was, at least, still there.

Unfortunately, it had been damaged by years of poor, or likely no, maintenance, and must have given up the ghost at some point after the evacuation order had come in. Izzy checked it over as thoroughly as she could, and pulled out a datapad she'd brought along, handed it to Greg, and had him type up a list of all the tools and parts they'd need.

When they were finished, they hiked back down, got into the snow hog, and began driving back.

"Do you think we'll be able to find everything?" he asked as they drove back.

"I don't know," Izzy murmured, studying the list. "Maybe. Most of this stuff is pretty standard, but a few of these parts are rare."

"Great."

They drove back to the outpost and immediate set to work. Greg was tasked with the actual searching at first, while Izzy got the control room powered up again and hunted for an inventory list. Three hours passed as they worked, and Greg collected parts and tools, putting them into a small silver crate, checking them off the list. He ruminated silently on what it was about checking things off a list that felt so satisfying to the human mind, and ultimately decided he didn't care, because he liked the fact that something so simple could be so enjoyable. He'd rather be easy to please than difficult. It seemed to make things simpler.

For the most part.

In the end, he found almost everything.

"I couldn't find the last thing on the list, this, uh, Model F8 Novac Motherboard," he said.

"Yeah, I figured," she muttered. She'd come to help him about halfway through, and then when they'd gotten down to the end of the list, she'd returned to the database to keep checking. "There is one listed in the inventory codex, but I've been trying to figure out where the hell they kept it for the past twenty minutes. I finally found out."

"You don't sound happy...where could it be that's so difficult to access?" he asked.

She heaved a sigh. "The UNSC cut a deal with the company that owned that mining corporation. They agreed to let it be used as storage space, and some of the stuff from here wound up over there...near the back part of the mine. Remember that tunnel we didn't go down, the big one with the weird smell?" He nodded unhappily. "It's near the end of _that_ tunnel."

"Great," he muttered.

"Yep. So it looks like we have to deal with more of those damned nightwalkers."

"Let's get this over with then."

* * *

"I don't want to do this," Greg said quietly.

"Same," Izzy muttered.

He'd found himself thinking that a lot lately, which was disturbing, given the amount he normally had to put up with. Was he losing his confidence? He found it harder and harder to push himself into things like this. Maybe this situation was outside the scope of what he normally put up with, or maybe he felt so anxious because, besides Izzy, he was totally cut off with no backup. No line to command or anyone higher up than him. He'd certainly been in that type of situation before, but it was kind of rare. He sighed suddenly and shook his head.

There was no one else to do this, and if they didn't do it, it wouldn't get done.

"Let's go," he said, gripping his shotgun and setting off. Izzy followed after him.

They were as decked out as they could be. He was deeply grateful for those helmets they'd found. Besides keeping most of the cold out, it provided some nice nightvision, which they had to activate within just a few minutes, as the sunlight fell away.

"Wait...do you smell that?" he asked, hesitating after about fifty meters.

"Yes," Izzy replied.

Blood. Spilled blood. It had a weird edge to it, one that he recognized from when they'd had to slaughter all those nightwalkers in the warehouse. After a moment, they kept walking, scanning the area as they went. Sure enough, within another few minutes, they came back to the huge tunnel that slanted away, leading deeper into the dark earth, and found a collection of corpses. Nightwalkers, nearly a dozen of them.

"Holy crap," Izzy whispered.

Something had outright slaughtered them, shredding their bodies, and there was a lot of blood around. "I smell something else. That other smell we first noticed, it's a long stronger now," Greg murmured as he stared down the tunnel.

"What is it?" Izzy asked softly.

He thought about, struggling, but couldn't come up with anything. It was an ugly reek, it was bad, he knew that at least, and it was vaguely familiar, but…

"I still don't know," he said. "So you know where this thing is?"

"Yes. I know exactly where it is. Last door on the left, about three hundred meters down."

"Then let's get in there, grab it, and get the hell out."

She nodded tightly. Greg readjusted his grip once more and began walking down the tunnel with Izzy at his side, each of them covering one half of the tunnel. Greg listened to their boots hitting the rocky ground, the lonely echo of their footsteps, and his own breathing inside the helmet. He strained to hear anything else. The smell, which reminded him unpleasantly of death and decay now, was only growing stronger. He kept wondering what could have killed those nightwalkers. A drub, maybe. Or a few of them. Vargs? Or some other thing that was on the island that he had yet to come across? What a great thought.

The walls of the tunnels were rough stone and dirt, broken occasionally by a ring of rusty girders meant to help shore it all up. He wondered what the risk of a cave-in was after so many years of poor maintenance. How long had this place been abandoned? But that smell, it was really raising his hackles, sending waves of unease whispering through him. They had to stop and check every side tunnel or door they found, at least give it a glance, hunting for threats. But they remained alone, nothing but the occasional flash of dull metal from stacks of crates or old machinery or mining equipment.

Mostly, the rooms and side passages were empty.

"Okay, this is it," Izzy whispered as they at last came to the room. That three hundred meters felt like three thousand, and they still had to go back. The tension that laced the air had become oppressive at this point.

Still there was nothing.

They moved inside and cleared the room of threats, finding nothing but some stacks of crates, a little work site set up in the far corner some distant ago in the form of a pair of foldout tables pushed together and a stool. Rusty tools scattered the tabletops. Something caught his eye as he finished searching the area.

"Whoa...what's this?" he muttered as he saw the phrase **HAZARDOUS – EXPLOSIVES** slapped onto the side of one of the crates.

"Must be demo charges. They use them to expand mines sometimes," Izzy replied.

"Maybe we should use them," Greg murmured.

"What for?"

"I'm not sure, but having explosives would be useful."

"Maybe. Check them out, I'll find the part."

He nodded and set to it, getting the crate open carefully. He definitely had experience with explosives, and more than just yelling 'frag out!'. As he pried it open, he found himself staring at a collection of foamy yellow charges, molded into rectangles about two inches thick and sorted carefully into rows divided by metal slats. The first two layers were missing, meaning someone had put some of these to use at some point or another. There was a small metal box resting atop the explosives. He took it and opened it up. There were a collection of metal detonating pins inside, and the detonator itself. Well, that was useful.

Maybe.

"Got it!" Izzy called.

"Perfect, let's-" He twisted around as they began to hear footfalls. He locked eyes briefly with Izzy, and then both of them rose swiftly to their feet and aimed their weapons at the door. The footsteps were slow and uneven. Whoever it was might be injured or disoriented. He started to move but Izzy raised her fist, and he held fast. What did she sense that he didn't? Slowly, he lowered his shotgun, letting it hang, then pulled out his pistol. If it _was_ something bad, he'd wanted to be able to take it out right away.

The footsteps drew closer.

And then something let out a gurgle.

What was _that_? That didn't sound right. He felt a shiver ripple through him. This was a bad place to be, a bad place to be facing the unknown. But what could it _be_? Obviously it was someone wearing boots, which meant it wasn't a creature. And he somehow doubted there were Covenant around. Although it was possible. It didn't sound heavy enough to be a Brute though, or even an Elite. Jackal? Grunts were too undisciplined to be this quiet, except for that weird gurgle, and they didn't make those sounds. So what could it be?

It _had_ to be a human.

Right?

The footsteps hesitated, then suddenly resumed with an increased speed. Getting closer. Oh crap. Everything about this situation was freaking him out. He kept his pistol aimed at the door, noting Izzy doing the same thing. She was closer. The footsteps drew nearer and nearer, and finally a dark figure appeared in the doorway.

"What the hell?" Izzy whispered.

Greg stared at the thing staring in the doorway. It _was_ a human being, except it also wasn't. Something was _deeply_ wrong with them. Their skin had taken on an ugly leathery look, and they were severely disfigured. One arm had grown tremendously, ending in a tangle of tentacles. That shoulder had grown to ridiculous proportions, making it lopsided and bulky. Its chest was bulged out too. And its head...was tilted at an insane angle. It hardly even looked properly attached anymore. There were three strange stalks sticking out of the chest. This thing that had once been a man, (maybe?), now wore the shredded remains of some cold weather gear.

Abruptly, Greg knew what he was looking at.

He took aim at its chest and fired. It was a good shot, and a clean kill. Its chest blew out and the creature fell onto its back.

"What the hell was that?!" Izzy demanded.

"It was a Flood," Greg muttered, slowly walking forward.

"A what?" she asked, looking at him.

"I heard about this." He stopped in the doorway, looking down at the corpse. Some of its tentacles were still twitching. "You remember that guy Payton?"

"Payton...no, I don't think so," Izzy replied, joining him.

"He was a medic. We started talking about a month ago, when he got rotated in. He told me stories, about when he was on Delta Halo. Barely managed to make it out alive. You've heard of the Halo ring, right?"

"Yeah, I've at least heard about that. Supposed to be this giant alien installation or something."

"They fought these things on it. He said they're crazy dangerous."

"You put it down pretty easy," Izzy murmured, but she sounded disturbed, staring at the mutated body.

"That's just one. He said they were like...an infection. They can take you over really fast, said the fastest way to kill them was a gunshot to the chest. That's where the infection lives, apparently. But this...this would more than explain the nature of the distress call. But if they're here..."

"Then where else are they?"

"How did they get _here,_ though? We haven't seen any signs of them anywhere, unless you saw something?" he asked, looking at her.

She shook her head. "Nothing like _this._ "

"Which means they must be just here in the mine. This one came from the direction yet gone." He hesitated, glanced back at the crate he'd been poking through. "Maybe we can collapse it. Seal the way. Stop more of them from coming."

"If we're gonna do it, let's do it," Izzy replied.

He nodded and hurried back over to the crate. Reaching down, he got a good grip on it and lifted it up. "You'll have to watch my back," he said as he moved to join her.

"Understood," she replied.

They stepped out into the main tunnel. He glanced at the Flood entity again. The tentacles had stopped moving. Up ahead, he thought he heard another gurgle. Great. They set up, moving as swiftly as they could down the tunnel. It wasn't far to the end. Now he knew what that smell was, and it was worse than ever. As they drew closer, he began to see shapes appearing out of the gloom. "Take them out," he whispered.

Izzy stepped forward, aimed, and opened fire. One of them dropped, its chest blown out. Then another. Four more began to run towards them, shrieking wildly. Izzy put them down with a brutal proficiency, and as the last one dropped, he waited, listening. There was nothing else. "Okay," she said, "how long to set up?"

"I need to figure out where they're actually coming from," Greg replied.

They set to work. The tunnel opened up into a huge chamber. Greg walked to the center and set the crate down, then helped her begin searching for some kind of opening. It took another five tense minutes before finally locating a smaller tunnel.

"So this is it then?" Izzy asked.

"I didn't see any others," Greg replied. "Wait here."

He returned to the crate, grabbed it, and then came back. Setting it down, he set to work pushing detonator pins into the yellow bricks. "It shouldn't take much-" he began. Something growled. "Crap," he muttered.

Izzy raised her pistol. Something else growled, then something gurgled. A shape appeared deeper in the tunnel, then another, and another.

"We might have a problem here," Izzy said.

"Crap!" Greg snapped. He finished shoving the detonator pin into the third brick and then dropped it back into the box. He could see a dozen of them in the tunnel, no, two dozen. Three. Fifty of them, more appearing every second he stared. "Go! Run!"

They bolted. The pair ran for all they were worth, going as fast as they could. The creatures were growling now, some roaring, and he heard a thunderous stampede of footfalls coming their way. As they reached the far entrance, he glanced back over his shoulder. They were spilling out into the cavern now, coming for them, a tide of death.

"Keep running!" he shouted, getting the detonator ready.

He gave them another ten seconds before hitting the detonator. The concussive blast picked them up and threw them several feet, and as he scrambled to his feet, listening to several tons of rock collapsed behind them, he wondered if he'd brought the whole thing down on their heads. Greg and Izzy managed to get back up and kept running, but after a few seconds, it became obvious that the roof was not falling onto them.

They slowed to a halt and looked back the way they'd come.

The tunnel now ended in a rough wall of collapsed rock and dirt.

"That could've gone better," Izzy muttered.

"Given our luck recently, all things considered, it was a pretty good outcome," Greg replied. He looked over at her suddenly. " _Please_ tell me you still have the part."

Izzy checked one of her pockets, pulled something out, studied it, then nodded and replaced it. "We're good."

"Okay, let's get out of here."


	17. Chapter 17: Uplink

When they got back to the snow hog, which they did as quickly as possible, Greg and Izzy sat together in the front in silence for several minutes. Eventually, Izzy reached forward slowly and started up the vehicle.

"We need to...um...get to the comms tower, and fix," she said quietly.

Greg just nodded. After another moment, she got the hog turned around and began making her way back to the trail that would take them there.

After a bit longer, she finally spoke again. "What _are_ they?"

"Monsters," Greg muttered.

"You said they were like a virus or something? Could _we_ turn into them?"

"No," Greg replied, running everything Payton had said to him through his head again. "No, when I was talking to Payton about them, he said it was really fast. Like, less than a minute. So we already would have turned. And he said, it wasn't like a virus, not exactly, like...they had to jump onto you or something. Damn, what did he say? He was vague about it after that initial part. I think he was paranoid, like worried someone would overhear him."

"If these are real hostiles, why haven't we been briefed on them!?" Izzy asked, suddenly angry.

"I don't know. He seemed to think they were only on Delta Halo. Maybe...they were too scared of spreading word around? These things seem really dangerous, like zombies or something. And obviously they aren't just on Delta Halo."

"Why do you call it Delta Halo?" she asked suddenly.

"What? I don't know, that's just what he called it. He kept calling it Delta Halo."

"So there's more than one of them?"

"I...guess so," he murmured.

"Dammit. Here we are, cut off and under-prepared, and now we're facing these things! What if more of them show up?"

"We'd better get that radio fixed pronto," he replied, and she nodded tightly in response.

A few moments later, they had the snow hog parked and were making their way back up the trail. As they made their way up it as fast as they safely could, Greg found himself more paranoid than ever. The mystery had finally been solved, and it was far worse than he thought it was going to be. Ever since hearing about them, a dark seed of worry relating to the Flood had been planted somewhere in the darker trenches of his mind.

Now that plant was in full bloom and slithering out into the light, and he hated it.

He'd had a few nightmares about facing them, even when he'd never seen one before. And now he had, and he knew a lot more nightmares were in his near future. They were horrifying and he was honestly having trouble with truly coming to grips with their reality. He couldn't stop seeing the mutated things, the beasts that once been human beings. Their decaying, leathery skin, their misshapen bodies, the tentacles, the sounds they made. What _were_ they? His mind was going to the same place Izzy's had gone.

How did you become one?

Because what if he was wrong? He wasn't sure if it was airborne or bloodborne, like a traditional virus or infection, but he couldn't be sure because he didn't _know_. All he had to go off of was what he'd heard, which wasn't much, and what he'd seen so far. But despite his increased paranoia, as he scanned the frozen landscape of the island he and Izzy occupied, he saw nothing moving down there but the occasional varg or drub or alien deer. Although now he was less sure about the more distant shapes. They _looked_ like they were moving like animals down on all fours but…

He wanted to use his zoom function built into the helmet, but it was too dangerous at the moment, what with walking up a mountain path. Finally, they reached the top, and he was extremely grateful that they'd thought to bring all the parts and tools with them from the base when they'd initially gone to the mine. Oh how he hoped they never had to go back into that mine. What if there were more openings? And how widespread was this whole situation?

"Okay, watch my back," Izzy said tightly.

Greg grunted a response and turned around, suddenly paranoid that something might have followed them up the trail, but it remained clear. He took the opportunity to check out all the things he saw moving off in the distance using the zoom feature. As the seconds became minutes, he saw that they were all just what he thought they were: animals. A pack of vargs. A few lone drubs. A couple of collections of alien deer. Nothing that looked human or anything vaguely like a human. He listened to the wind whistle and Izzy work, which mostly just mechanical clinks and clangs, and her cursing occasionally.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then a quarter hour.

Suddenly, there was a metallic snap and then, about thirty seconds later, she said, "I did it."

"It's fixed?" he asked, looking back at her.

"It works. Now it's just a matter of there being someone to talk to out there. Come on," she said, repacking her toolkit, "I really want to cut this suspense BS."

"Same," he agreed.

A moment later, they were hurrying back down the trail.

* * *

The suspense only grew as they got back to the hog and began the drive back towards the UNSC outpost. It seemed to take ages even though nothing was actually slowing them down. No creatures getting their way, (not that that would particularly slow them down, unless maybe it was a drub), no bad weather, no car troubles. Still, by the time they finally pulled into the outpost's parking garage, Greg was nearly out of his mind with anxiety and impatience. It was when he suddenly wondered if something _else_ was wrong, like some kind of malfunction they hadn't previously detected and he realized that would drive him absolutely out of his mind that he realized he needed to get a grip and calm the hell down.

Because it wasn't like calling up someone on the radio was the end-all, be-all solution to their problems. Even if they were lucky enough to get in touch with someone from UNSC Command or the UNSC at all, he doubted they had some miracle cure that they were poised to launch. No, whatever was happening, he had the idea that they were in this for a long haul. There was certainly a lot more hardship and misery ahead of him.

So he forcibly hit the brakes and chilled himself out as they made their way into the outpost. Finally, he sat down at the comms workstation and fired it up. Time to see if all their effort had been in vain or not. First he confirmed that the radio actually worked.

"First things first," he muttered as he began to tune the instruments. "We're going to try and get in touch with the goddamned _Icarus_. It'd be great to hear their voices."

"Hell yes, it would," Izzy replied.

But try as he might, he couldn't reach them. Not even a little. After several minutes, with an unhappy sigh, he instead set to work hunting for live UNSC emergency frequencies. Grabbing the mic, he set to work.

"This is Corporal Greg Walker of the UNSC Marine Corps, is anyone out there? Over." He paused once, listening, waiting, feeling Izzy tense at his side, and almost began to repeat himself.

Then there was a burst of static. _"This is Sergeant Becker, I hear you Corporal. Where are you and what's your situation? Over."_

Greg felt relief burst inside of him like a signal flare. "We're on-" He stopped as it suddenly occurred to him that he'd never actually learned the name of the island they were on. He looked beseechingly at Izzy.

"Polaris," she said.

"-we're on Polaris Island. There's two of us. We're, as far as we know, the only survivors of a pair of Fireteams sent down from orbit. We were hit by some kind of solar activity that fried most of the electronics in the area. We are both in good health, and ready and willing to help. Can we get some intel on what the hell is going on? We were never properly briefed. Over."

" _Wait. You're saying that you are not from Wintermute? That you came from a UNSC vessel? Over,"_ the Sergeant replied, sounding excited.

"Confirmed. We are from the UNSC _Icarus_. Unfortunately, we have no idea what happened to it. We can't reach it. Over."

A sigh. _"I figured as much. Between the loss of several key communication relays, the solar storm, and this goddamned weather, it's hard to talk to anybody on the planet. Okay, situation is as follows: the entire planet is now under quarantine, as we have been hit with hostile force known as the Flood. Are you familiar? Over."_

"Vaguely. I've heard about them. Over."

" _That's a start. Have you encountered any on Polaris Island? Over."_

"Affirmative. We encountered a lot of them in a mine, but we set off demolition charges and we may have plugged the tunnel they were coming through, but we can't be sure. Over."

" _Aw, dammit."_ Another unhappy sighed. _"I'm sending over a data packet now. It's all the intel we have on them at the moment, but the situation is very sketchy. I'm about fifty five miles from your current position, on the mainland at a refueling station we've set up in. Look, right now, we're in a bad situation all over. Mainly we're trying to find a place for civilians, and we were looking at Polaris Island. What does your intel suggest? Over."_

Greg sighed heavily, glancing at Izzy, who looked uncertainly back at him. He considered it for a moment. "Our experiences here so far haven't painted exactly the best picture. There's a lot of dangerous creatures around, and we've confirmed that we're the only two people left on the island. There's not a lot of places to set up camp in, if you're looking at a refuge zone...and there's the Flood element, too. It could be worse, but it could be a whole hell of a lot better. Over."

" _Well, right now, it's our only viable option. It's isolated and we've got a lot of scared, displaced, and injured people here. Not to mention, we need our own HQ in the region. We've been preparing to make a push to the island itself, but we keep running into mishaps."_ Here, he hesitated. _"Listen, I know it's a lot to ask, but...the only direct route to the island is a two-mile tunnel that connects the mainland to the island. It lets out on the north side of the town, it should be easy to find. Sea travel is largely out and air is too dangerous and too difficult at the moment. Whatever that damned solar flare was, it's left some kind of residual trace in the atmosphere and it's screwing with our ships. So I need the two of you to clear the way in that tunnel...over."_

Greg swallowed, then glanced at Izzy, who looked pale. "Uh...I'm not sure if we're in any position to do that, precisely. There's only two of us, and we've just got a shotgun and a pair of pistols with not a whole lot of ammo between us...over."

" _Dammit, this is bad. Unfortunately, I'm not sure if we have a lot of choices. I sent a recon squad in to scout the way, but lost contact with them not long after. Right now, all of our assets are engaged elsewhere. You're it, Marines. I can't exactly make you do this. I can order you, but you're there and I'm here. So I guess your two options are to sit there and wait for extraction, when and if it comes, or make your way through the tunnel. Just know that we could really use all hands on deck for this one. Over,"_ Becker said. He sounded tired, resigned almost.

Greg stared at Izzy, and she stared back. A look of grim sureness crept slowly onto her face, and she locked eyes with him and nodded tightly. He sighed and hit the respond button. "Understood, Sergeant. We're going to mount up and head into the tunnel. We'll do our damnedest to secure it and see if we can't find your missing recon team. God willing, we'll link up with you at some point in the near future. How do we get to you? Over."

" _It's easy, just keep following the road dead on after you get out of the tunnel."_ A pause. _"Thank you for this. I genuinely wish you the two of you the absolute best of luck down there...out."_

Greg slowly sat back, feeling like he'd been sucker punched. "That wasn't exactly what I was hoping for," he muttered.

"It's going to have to do," Izzy replied. "Because it's all we're going to get." She clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Come on, Greg. We've got a hell of a job ahead of us."

"Uh-huh," he managed, reaching up and placing his hand over hers.

They remained like that for several seconds, and then finally Greg stood up, and the two of them walked out of the control room.

* * *

The two of them spent the next hour and a half preparing.

They started by shutting down everything they could in the military base, to save what power there was left for those who would come after them. Then they studied up on the data that had been sent to them by Sergeant Becker. It filled in a few blanks, and even came with some helpful photos. The things they had faced down in the mine were officially called Combat Forms. The Flood was able to grow their numbers via Infection Forms, which were awful, little things that looked like bulbous alien heads on tiny tentacle legs.

Apparently, they burrowed into your chest and took you over.

Which was pretty horrifying to imagine. There were some bits of data on their combat abilities: strength, speed, attacks. What he knew about their chests held true, although apparently shooting them anywhere else was practically useless. There was another form he hadn't known about: a Carrier Form. It was a bloated, hideous blob that apparently acted as a natural explosive. It carried Infection Forms. As he read over this, he flashed back to reading over that guide to the island, learning about all the dangerous creatures.

What a nightmare this was going to be.

Once they had digested all this information, they set about preparing the base as much as they could. They made sure everything was locked down after rechecking all of the rooms they had previously locked off, just to be sure, then they debated over how much supplies to take with them. After figuring that out, loading up a pair of crates of food, water, medicine, clothing, and technical parts and tools in the back of the snow hog, they locked everything else up in the infirmary, mess hall, and storage areas respectively, and then left a detailed list of information on an infopad resting on the primary station of the control room, hoping to give the Marines who came after them as much of an edge as possible.

If they were hoping to tame this island, it was going to be very difficult.

Once they had done as much as they could, the pair got into their snow hog and began driving towards the town, and the path that would take them off of this island.


	18. Chapter 18: Beneath the Ice

**PART TWO  
** –The Long Road–

* * *

They drove across the island, beneath a cold winter sun, and came at last to their only means of escape.

Greg drove down the main road of the only town on Polaris Island, Milton, and felt once again what it was like to pass through a ghost town. A place of immense isolation and death. There were some signs of attack: broken windows, bullet holes, dead bodies in the street. Some of them were Combat Forms.

The Flood had _definitely_ come to the island.

"Damn," Izzy whispered. "They got hit hard."

"Yep," Greg muttered. He sat in the driver's seat, listening to the wind and the vehicle idle.

"Should we search the houses?" Izzy asked uncertainly, looking around.

"No, I don't think so. We already know that we're the only people in the area, and I have serious doubts there's any kind of big stash hidden here. But...I _do_ think we should try to make sure that our back is covered."

"How's that?" she asked.

"Get ready, I'll show you," he replied.

She nodded and stood up in her seat, pulling her pistol out. Greg leaned on the horn. It was loud and even though he knew it was coming, because he was the one _doing it_ , it still startled him. He was pretty wound up right now. The horn blared on, echoing across the dead, frozen landscape, washing over the vacant structures. After about half a minute, he stopped and then slowly stood in his seat, joining Izzy in her vigil.

"I don't like this," she muttered.

"It _is_ pretty dangerous," he replied. She sighed. "I'm sorry, but this is the best option. Way better for them to come to us."

"Yeah, well-"

Something growled off to the right. They both fell silent and took aim. The growling grew louder as the entity producing it drew closer. It was coming from the right side. Greg held his pistol firmly, aiming towards the general area the sound was coming from. He began to hear footsteps, crunching in the snow, and he shifted his aim to between a pair of houses. A shadow appeared, swaying from side to side as the creature came closer.

And then a Flood Combat Form stepped out into the cold light of day.

It was hideous, he saw as he took aim, but more than just hideous. It was monstrous. It was a perversion of humanity, because it had obviously once _been_ human. Its greenish, mottled skin was grotesque to behold. Its lopsided, asymmetrical nature touched him on a deep, primal level, evoking disgust and fear, as one of its arms had been replaced with a bundle of writhing tentacles and two enormous claws. Its shoulder was easily four or five times normal size on that side and it hobbled as it advanced on them.

By far its most disturbing aspect was the fact that a human head hung off to the right side, like a forgotten thing, like a tumor, pushed aside to make way for its new alien face, which was a trio of bristly stalks that ended in puffs of what resembled plant roots. They stuck out of where the neck once met the chest, which was now just a solid lump of flesh and meat. The thing stared at them, inasmuch as it could, and made a gurgling, growling sound.

Both Greg and Izzy fired at the same time. He aimed directly for the chest area, where the stalks stuck out of, and the twin rounds punched into the corroded flesh, killing it instantly. The creature went rigid and then fell onto its back with a heavy thud, becoming still as a statue in the recently fallen snow. A cold wind blew.

"They're so much worse in the daylight," Izzy groaned.

"Yes, they are," Greg muttered.

More growling came to them, more footsteps in the snow, more creatures coming to feed or murder or infect, or whatever it was they did. He saw two of them appear behind the Warthog, coming from around a house, and three more stalked onto the street to his left. Greg shifted aim and got to work, and heard Izzy do the same thing. He emptied his pistol blowing out their chests in sprays of pulpy, decayed gore.

He dropped one, two, three of the hideous things. Their old blood stained the snow and some of the houses as they went down. The M6G seemed very well-suited for the task of putting down Combat Forms, Greg was exceptionally happy to learn. He emptied the pistol and hastily reloaded, but as he finished slapping the magazine home, he looked around, scanning the area, and saw no more movement.

Izzy stopped firing as well.

"Is that it?" she growled, breathing heavily.

"I...think so," Greg murmured. They waited another thirty seconds, breaths foaming on the air as they studied the buildings around them. No more growls, no more footsteps. Slowly, Greg lowered his pistol, then put it back into its holster. "They don't seem smart enough to hide."

"I sure hope so," Izzy replied. She holstered her pistol. "So, onward?"

"Yeah," he said, and they sat back down. Greg began driving slowly towards the tunnel at the end of the road. Although he had gotten a little bit of a confidence boost from actually putting the monsters down, having faced them and survived again, he couldn't help but feel that the thick darkness of the tunnel ahead, and the arrival of the Combat Forms themselves, were both bad omens. Portents of doom. He didn't really consider himself a spiritual man, but sometimes it did feel like the universe was trying to tell him something.

And right now it was telling him that the way ahead was dangerous.

As they reached the edge of the tunnel, which sloped downward immediately, Greg hesitated, letting the Warthog roll to a stop. It sat there, idling. Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Finally, Greg flipped on the headlights.

Brilliant beams of white light cut into the darkness, though it did not banish it.

He could only just see the edges of the tunnel. They were scarred and weather-eaten instacrete. Up ahead, something growled, the sound echoing out to them.

"Well, here we go," he said.

"Here we go," Izzy replied quietly. She sounded vaguely ill, and he knew exactly how she felt.

Well, the only way out was through.

Greg took his foot off the brake and slowly began to drive them into the darkness.

* * *

They managed to get about thirty feet, down the incline, before having to stop.

Although Greg had been envisioning a snarl of abandoned vehicles choking the tunnel, it wasn't quite that bad. But there were a few abandoned vehicles in the middle of the road, blocking the way. The tunnel was a good fifty feet wide, with two narrow lanes and strips of sidewalk along either side. There was supposed to be lighting, he could see, but all the bulbs and lamps attached to the walls at regular intervals were dark and dead.

He saw uncertain shapes loping slowly around in the shadows his headlights cast.

"So...we're suppose to actually secure this tunnel, huh?" Izzy asked softly.

"Yeah," Greg replied. "That's our goal."

She sighed heavily. "I guess we should probably get started."

"Yeah. Okay, we'll need to kill all the hostiles in the area, and get these cars moved out of the way. And we should search for supplies, ammo, anything we can find. And..." he hesitated, looking over to the right, "...and there's a door over there. Which means there's almost certainly going to be more doors. Well, that could be a good thing, I guess. Let's go."

He turned off the Warthog, but left the headlights on. Whatever other Flood were around seemed to be at a safe enough distance for the moment. The door in question was a simple but sturdy industrial door built into the instacrete wall to their right. It was partially open. Greg grabbed his shotgun from the Warthog and slung it over his shoulder, then flicked on the flashlight mounted on the end of the barrel.

"Watch my back," he whispered.

"Affirmative," Izzy replied.

He carefully pushed the door open, keeping the shotgun raised, and when nothing leaped out at him, he stepped slowly inside and played the flashlight beam across the interior. It was a break area, no doubt for maintenance personnel. There was just a single door at the back of the room. He looked across the area, spying a pair of couches, a scratched, low table, a row of cabinets and counters with a mini-fridge and a microwave, all of it cleared out. Greg performed a quick sweep of the room and the room through the door at the back, which turned out to be a simple bathroom, and managed to find at least one useful thing.

"Izzy," he said, and she appeared in the doorway. "Here. Look."

She joined him, closing the door quietly behind her, and they studied a map pinned to the wall of the tunnel. It was simple enough, highlighting another six rooms spread down the length of the passageway to either side. There were a pair of maintenance work areas, a pair of storage rooms, a public bathroom, and finally…

"Knew it," Izzy muttered as she tapped a generator room on the map. "This place has its own generator. It was buried, so we might be able to fix it, get some lights on."

"A working generator would sure as hell help a military convoy," Greg murmured.

"You get me there and I'll see what I can do," Izzy replied.

The generator room was on the opposite side and about halfway down the length of the tunnel...so almost a mile away. Damn, this was a long tunnel. One of the maintenance areas and a storage room were on the way, so he made a mental note to check that out. As they returned to the main area, Greg decided it was time for a repeat performance of the battle above ground. Only this time it was going to be a lot scarier.

He and Izzy climbed up onto a nearby pair of vehicles, standing an appreciable distance apart, and looked into the shadowy gloom ahead of them. Shapes still lurked, hobbling things that growled to themselves, or perhaps each other, in the murky darkness ahead. Greg saw one wander into the headlight's beam and become illuminated in all its horrible glory. He aimed and fired, putting a shot right through its chest.

He might as well have been ringing the dinner bell or firing off a shot at the start of a race. A chorus of growls and groans went up from all over the place and a small army of Flood creatures began coming at them through the stalled cars. He and Izzy got to work as the creatures came for them, their muzzle flares lighting up the darkened tunnel. Even as he put down the Combat Forms with relative ease, his hands steady, his aim sure, Greg could feel worry beginning to gnaw at him. He'd run through a pair of magazines up top, and that put him down to four for his sidearm, with just over a dozen shells for the shotgun.

And there were a lot of Flood.

The pistol ran dry, and he ejected the spent magazine and slapped a fresh one in. Down to three now, and still there were a fair amount. And he knew Izzy wasn't in much better condition. They were going to have to start fighting with hand-to-hand at this rate, and he didn't like his chances of taking a Combat Form on up close and personal, let alone several. The gunshots banged out, the Flood roared and pieces of them flew off in sprays of corrupted viscera, and their bodies slammed to the floor of the tunnel, occasionally hitting derelict vehicles on the way down.

Finally, after he had expended another magazine and a half, the tide of Flood ceased, and they were alone once more.

" _Damn,_ " Izzy growled, slowly lowering her pistol. " _Way_ too many."

"Yeah. I'm down to a mag and a half, you?" he replied.

"Two mags," she said, reloading. "That shotgun?"

"Fourteen shells," he replied.

She sighed. "There'd better be some damned ammo down here, or we're toast."

"Yeah. Let's start getting these cars out of the way."

"How do you wanna do it?"

"We pop them into neutral and shove them. Unless you had another thought?"

"We could shove them with the Hog," she replied.

"Okay, we'll do that when we've had enough of doing it ourselves."

"Fine."

They got to work after making sure there were no more Flood. Greg settled into his focused and alert mindset as much as he could as Izzy got into the nearest car and popped it into neutral, then he began shoving the damned thing out of the way. She pulled on the steering wheel to help guide it. He made sure to remind himself why he was doing this: to help out his fellow Marines and any number of civilians looking for refuge. Polaris Island wasn't exactly what he'd call ideal...but there were likely many worse places on Wintermute right now.

Once the car was out of the way, Izzy got out, and they switched places. He got into the next one and guided it while she pushed. They repeated this process another eight times before they reached a large gap where there were no other cars for quite a ways. With that annoying task out of the way, they walked back to their own vehicle, turned it back on, and started driving. Greg found himself thinking of the way ahead as they drove slowly through the darkness, leaving the sun's cold light behind. It was going to be…

Difficult.

He didn't know what he would find once he got to the other side of the tunnel, but he doubted it would be anything good. If he had to guess, he'd say that Becker was going to, regretfully, give him the unfortunate news that he'd have to make the fifty mile trip to his present location all on his own. It wouldn't surprise him, honestly, with how everything had gone since coming to this miserable place. They pulled over as they got to the first of the rooms: a maintenance bay. They got out and he covered Izzy as she pulled the door open and went inside.

He heard her curse and fire off a shot. Something shrieked and then a second shot sounded, and he heard the thump of a body.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Fine," she replied.

He waited for a few more minutes, listening to her rustle around in there, occasionally cursing. Greg couldn't help but smile a little. What, exactly, was he getting himself into with Izzy? He liked her. A lot. He was realizing in that slow kind of way most guys do sometimes, that he actually liked her a lot more than he initially thought. Probably because his judgment was clouded by, well, lust. She was very beautiful, in a really rough kind of way. There was a lot to like about her, even if she had some trust and anger issues.

But every relationship was a little like playing Russian Roulette.

It probably would either go well, or at least end well or neutrally, but there was a chance it could misfire and blow up on you. And some of those misfires, if you really cared, if you fell in love...that had the chance to do some permanent damage.

That was life, though, right?

"Done," Izzy said as she emerged from the metal cave that was the maintenance bay.

"Anything?" he asked as they got back into the Hog.

"Nothing imminently useful. I threw a few tools into my kit that might help, but otherwise, nothing," she replied.

They spent another half an hour moving down the tunnel, stopping twice to shift cars out of the way, and once to kill a pocket of Flood creatures, and once more to check out the storage room. It had a bunch of stuff that would probably be useful to the Marines and civilians who were on their way here, but didn't have much use to them in the moment. And finally, they came to the halfway point, and found something unexpected.

"Is that what I think it is?" Izzy asked as Greg rolled to a halt not far from where the generator room was supposed to be.

"It sure looks like it," Greg replied.

Off to the left side of the tunnel was a wrecked vehicle. But this was no civilian vehicle. It was a Carrier Warthog, painted white and gray. The windshield was broken, the driver's door was ripped off, and two of the tires were shredded. They both got out and slowly approached the wrecked vehicle. Although Greg had no hope of other survivors, this would be a really nice place for a cache of guns and ammo. As he came up to the vehicle, he peered cautiously into the interior, and saw a lot of blood. No bodies though.

He was sure some of those Flood he'd put down had been wearing military fatigues.

With a quiet sigh, Greg performed a quick search of the Carrier Hog.

"Oh _yes,_ " he whispered as he looked in the back.

"What? _Please_ tell me you found guns," Izzy replied.

"Yep. Shotguns. Military grade M90As, and a big box of shells," he answered. His relief was intense, like a cool wave flowing through his body. Greg set his shotgun aside and grabbed the M90A model and passed it to Izzy, then grabbed the second one for himself. He checked it out, made sure it was intact, and deemed it functional. It was empty though, and there were spent casings around, so obviously it had seen some use. He took a moment to divide the shotgun shells among them. He'd have to abandon the shells he'd already gathered, as this military-grade piece of hardware took eight gauge, but Greg couldn't bring himself to mind right then.

They each managed to get three full loads, which was eighteen total for the As. No pistol ammo, though, but it was going to have to be enough.

"There's the generator," Izzy said, nodding to the door a little farther down the way after checking out her weapon. Greg made his way over and opened up the door, peering inside. He was glad that this model also had a flashlight built in, and it was more powerful to boot. The interior of the generator room was a wreck, and it looked like the generator had seen some damage in the fighting. Izzy saw it and cursed.

"Great," she muttered after they'd cleared the room and checked out all the shadows. "Okay, gimme a few minutes."

Greg nodded and went to stand at the door, reminding himself to grab his civilian model shotgun and toss it back in his own Warthog. Or maybe not. Maybe he should leave it here, in case someone else needed it during desperate times.

Something growled, off in the dim shadows of the way yet gone.

Greg raised the shotgun, holding it firmly, feeling his pulse begin to quicken. He thought he was handling his first contact with the Flood pretty decently, considering the situation and how freaky they were, but it still made his heart rate double in the span of a few seconds. He heard plodding footsteps, getting closer.

"How's it coming?" he asked.

"Fine, why?" Izzy replied.

"We've got company."

"Can you handle it?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"Okay, tell me if you need help."

"Will do."

He waited, aiming his shotgun and flashlight towards the sound. There were definitely more than one of them, he could tell that much. He waited, his breath foaming on the chilled air beneath the ice and the sky. Slowly, they walked into his light. One appeared. Then two. Then four. Then six. Well...this wasn't looking great.

"I might need help," he said.

"Okay, I'm coming," Izzy replied.

One nice thing about the A model: it had a much longer effective range than the regular M90. Greg tracked the nearest one until it was within that range, and then squeezed the trigger. The shotgun boomed and jerked in his grasp, loosing an eight gauge slug shell and obliterating the thing's chest. It seemed to come apart under the force of the impact, blasted away into a cloud of decayed greenish gore, showering the others in bits and blood. They began rushing forward, growling, shrieking, yammering madly.

He sidestepped out into the tunnel as he heard Izzy approach from behind him while shifting aim and blasted another one off its feet. Behind him, Izzy opened up with her pistol. The Combat Forms ran shrieking towards them, more appearing from the shadows. Great. Greg emptied his shotgun and let it hang from its sling, quickly drawing his pistol and starting to fire it. He twitched his aim between bulging, infested chests as fast as he could, dropping the monstrous mutations as quickly as he could pull the trigger.

When the gun clicked empty, the last Combat Form fell dead and rolled to a stop at his feet, mere inches from touching his boot. Once they were sure they were alone yet again, Izzy turned around and got back to work. Greg reloaded his weapons and looked over the fresh field of death, his eyes slowly coming to rest on the Flood at his feet. He nudged it and shuddered. Even through his boot, he hated making contact with one of these things.

As he stared at it, he wondered where in the hell it had come from. Apparently from a Halo at one point...but obviously not in this case. Unless there was some insanely unique set of circuitous circumstances that had brought Flood from a Halo to here. But where did they _come_ from? Because there was something about them that was too...he wasn't sure. Too something, to be natural. He had to admit, they were exceptionally effective as shock troopers, and psychological warfare. What greater weapon was there than to turn your enemy against themselves? Looking at it, he could tell this had obviously been a human being probably not all that long ago.

Were they still alive in there? In that shell of a body?

Still somehow aware?

If so, murder would be a mercy.

A loud click sounded, startling him, and with a hum of power, most of the lights in the tunnel came back on, lighting it all up. He took a moment to look down the way yet gone, and groaned. There was still a lot of work to do.

"Got it," Izzy said.

He took a moment to grab his civilian grade shotgun and then joined her in the generator room. "So what's the prognosis?"

"It's in decent shape, actually. Just needed a few parts replaced, nothing serious, and it should hold for awhile. I think we should turn it down to emergency only, though," she said.

He considered it. Having all the lights on would make his job a lot easier...but it would chew up a lot of energy, especially if they just left them on. He supposed they could just turn them on, then finish up the job, then come back and set it to emergency _then_ , but...no. It made the most sense to leave emergency lighting on exclusively. Honestly, he was half-tempted to just turn it off completely, but no, emergency would do.

"Good idea," he replied.

She made a few adjustments to the generator, and while she did that, Greg set his shotgun down on a table in the room, as well as the few spare shells for it he had left. As he did this, Izzy glanced over. "You're leaving that here?"

"Yeah, someone else might need it," Greg replied.

"Fair enough."

She finished her work and most of the lights died. They returned to the tunnel and surveyed the area. The way ahead wasn't as dark as it was before, but it was still pretty dark. The emergency lights glowered high up on the walls, red and menacing.

"Back to work, then," Izzy muttered.

"Back to work," Greg agreed, and they made their way back to the Warthog.


	19. Chapter 19: Weather Station Z41

"After all the bullshit we went through on Polaris, I was pretty sure that I'd more than had my fill of being outdoors in the snow, and yet..." Izzy muttered as they drove slowly back out into the gray sunlight.

"Here we are," Greg replied, and knew exactly how she felt.

He drove the Hog forward until they were up the incline leading from the tunnel and back on level ground, where the road smoothed out, and they were given a tremendous view of the area. The road continued for dozens and dozens of miles, eventually curving to the right, disappearing behind a massive stand of trees. Off to the left was a mountain range. To the left and the right were massive ice fields and small copses of snow-capped trees and the occasional frozen lake.

Greg took several deep breaths and tried to calm down as he brought the Warthog to a full stop and put it in park. That tunnel had been...a bit much. And had definitely taken longer than he'd initially thought, and hoped, it would. According to the chronometer in his helmet, which appeared to be working decently well, they had been at it for two and a half hours down in that miserable, wretched place. There had been long stretches of nothingness, just the empty tunnel, starkly lit by the generator that Izzy had repaired, which were glorious reprieves from fighting the damned Flood. He'd seen some bad combat before, but…

Fighting literal rotting zombie monsters in a giant, underground, freezing tunnel ranked pretty high up there as far as terrible encounters went.

It might actually hit number one.

"We should, uh, we should report in, let Becker know we did it," Izzy said after several minutes.

Greg nodded and activated his radio. "Yeah," he muttered as he dialed in. He had to admit, he kind of just wanted to hear the guy's response, because the Sergeant had almost sent them on a suicide mission, and they'd come out the other side intact.

After a moment, he actually had it working. The weather seemed pretty clear now, although now that he was actually paying attention to it, he thought that he _did_ see an odd, very light green sheen to the sky, but it might be his imagination.

" _I'm sorry, who is this? Over."_

Greg sighed. "Corporal Greg Walker. I'm looking for Sergeant Becker, immediately. It's urgent. Over."

" _I, um...okay, one moment. Sorry."_ A pause. Then a belated, _"Um, over."_

"What was that about?" Izzy muttered, listening in with her own radio.

"No idea, but it's annoying," he replied quietly.

After several minutes, a familiar voice came onto the line. _"This you, Walker? Serrano? You actually made it through that tunnel? Over."_

"Yes, this is Walker and Serrano. We made it. It wasn't easy. There were dozens of the damned things down there, but we successfully restored power, cleared the worst of the wrecks out of the way, and cleaned the place out in terms of Flood, at least as far as we could manage. We probably killed fifty or sixty of the things. Over," Greg replied.

" _That's unbelievable! But great! You did great! Are you okay? Over."_

"We're fine. Tired, but fine. We found some more ammo. What's with the guy who answered the radio? Over."

" _Oh, him? He's a civvie. We've got not the best situation here right now, and I don't have enough personnel to cover radio duty, so we allocated some of the jobs to the civilians. That's how desperate we are right now. Where are you right now? Over."_

"Just outside of the tunnel on the opposite side, the mainland side. Over."

" _Uh. Okay..."_ A pause. _"Hold on. Over."_ Greg waited, glancing at Izzy. She returned his look of uneasy reluctance. Something about the way his tone had shifted indicated he didn't have good news for them. The radio buzzed and hummed as they waited for Becker to come back. Finally, after what felt like too long, he did. _"Okay, I'm back. Sorry. Things are a real mess over here, don't know if I've mentioned that yet. In case you didn't notice, the sky is kind of green. That's a residual charge leftover in the upper ionosphere, we think, from the solar flare from the local star. We think. Point is, we don't have enough data to really figure it out, and all we really do know is that it's screwing with radar, scanners, some radios, and our ability to fly, which is making this whole situation a hell of a lot more complicated than it needs to be._

" _We need more data. One of the things I was hoping to do on this little roadtrip that has completely stalled at this point was to make a pitstop at a little weather research installation hanging off the side of a cliff not too far from your current position. Over."_

"...why is it hanging off the side of a cliff?...uh, over," Greg asked.

" _I admittedly don't know, but it is. Originally it was government built, government funded, and eventually it got passed down to a corporation. Anyway, point is, there's a chance they might have some data that we need there, if their instruments were working properly. Data relating to the incident. We're collecting as many pieces as we can right now. I need you to swing by and gather that data if it's there. Over."_

Greg suppressed the very powerful urge to sigh heavily. "Understood, Sergeant. Lance Corporal Serrano and I will proceed to the weather research installation and recover the data if it's there. Over," he replied.

" _Thank you. I'm sending another data packet that has the coordinates. I'll have a second data packet ready for you after you complete this objective. I, uh, I admit that I wasn't sure if you were going to make it out of that tunnel. But you did, and you two clearly know your stuff, which means I'm going to be relying on you for a number of things. Over."_

"I see." His helmet chimed as it received the data packet. He had it display over his HUD and saw that the way there was incredibly simple: drive forward five miles, then hitch a right and drive for another mile and a half, and they'd be there. There apparently wasn't anything else on the way there to even check out. "We'll call you when we've completed the objective. Out."

He cut the link. Technically, the one with the higher rank was supposed to 'out' the conversation, but Greg was having a pretty garbage day. And he was just now beginning to get an idea of the scope of how much worse it was going to get, and how much longer it was going to go on for, and in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to just get this over with. He looked at Izzy again, and her look told him she felt the same way.

They started driving.

* * *

Greg kept a sharp eye out for anything of value, or anything threatening, as he made the drive to the weather station. Derelict cars, Flood, wildlife, signs of survivors...He saw almost nothing. The only thing that caught his eye was a single, derelict vehicle that had been burned nearly to its frame, and also some Combat Forms moving off in the far distance through the snow.

They looked like they were hunting.

He wanted to kill them, but they were a ways out there, off the road, and he was certain he'd get more than enough opportunity to kill a lot of Flood in the upcoming future. The drive itself was easy enough. Besides the road being icy, which the vehicle handled pretty well, there were no problems. The side road they took ultimately terminated in a parking lot that was perched not all that far away from the edge of a cliff.

And suddenly Greg got an idea of what Becker had been talking about.

They got out after making sure there were no Flood hanging around, and Greg felt a bit of hope as he saw that there were two cars parked in the lot. Though it was obvious that no one had been near them in at least a few days. They took a moment to check out the cars, both of them simple civilian vehicles, but there wasn't anything of any real use in them hidden away anywhere. There at least weren't corpses in there.

"Why is this a thing?" Izzy muttered when they got up to the edge of the sudden drop where nothing more than a simple guardrail stood between them and oblivion. Over the edge, directly below them, maybe fifteen meters down, was a structure of metal jutting out of the icy rock sheer. "Like no, really, why would someone build this here?"

"There _must_ be a reason," Greg replied, considering it for several moments. "I mean, this had to be expensive. Like, a lot more expensive than just building it on the surface. Maybe it was...maybe the placement gave them some kind of advantage? Hell, I don't know. I've got no idea. But I guess it doesn't matter. We still need to go down there."

She growled. "This sucks."

"Yep. Seems to be a lot of that going around recently." He sighed heavily. He was still exhausted from the tunnel, and all the other crap that had come before it. But hadn't he spent years now developing his endurance, building it? In a strange way, he couldn't help but feel like everything he'd been doing, preparing for, all his combat experience and training and pushing himself, all of it had led to this particular situation. Though, he supposed, technically speaking it always led to whatever particular situation he currently found himself in.

But...Wintermute _did_ feel significant.

It was probably the Flood. He'd never had to fight those monstrous, decaying bastards before. Greg reminded himself that he'd had like twenty relaxing minutes in the snow hog on the drive over here, (though it might not even have been that much), and that he could do this. He also reminded himself that there was still potentially a recon team out there somewhere, waiting for backup, struggling against the Flood and the elements, and right now, he and Izzy were that backup, and every second they wasted was another second that brought that team closer to death. If they weren't already dead by now.

There was a simple structure next to the parking lot, and they walked over to it, shotguns fully loaded and ready for action. Greg took point, hitting the button and hoping against hope that the power was still on. And it was! The door opened up, revealing a dimly-lit stairwell descending into the frozen earth. It looked clear.

"UNSC Marines, coming down!" he called, and waited, listening.

Nothing but silence, and the cold wind blowing.

He readjusted his grip on his shotgun and began making his way down the stairs. His boots echoed and the sound was somehow powerfully lonely. Though the effect was lessened as Izzy began walking. It felt good to have her there with him, watching his back, knowing that she'd fight for him just as hard as he'd fight for her. Greg took a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting the frozen air fill his lungs and sharpen his senses once more.

There could be anything waiting for them.

He reached the base of the stairwell and found an open door there. It led into a simple transitional room, a metal chamber that held nothing more than a desk and a chair. He shifted behind the desk, shining the flashlight's beam into the shadowy niche beneath it, and found nothing. On the desk was a cup of coffee, frozen solid, and when he tried to activate the simple terminal he found there, it wouldn't even turn on. With a soft sigh, he left the desk and moved over to the only other door in the room, where Izzy waited for him.

This one was closed and wouldn't open. She tracked down the manual release, pressed it, and together they got the door open, shoving it into its niche in the wall. They revealed a corridor with walls mostly made of glass, including a lot of the floor and the ceiling. The view was admittedly pretty spectacular. Far below them, they could see a churning ocean, and a wall of rock and ice to either side of them. Greg also noticed that a lot of the glass was cracked.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me," Izzy muttered.

"Nice and steady," Greg replied. "Stay two meters apart."

"Check."

He went first, keeping clear of the glass. Up ahead, between two panes of glass, mounted on the right wall, was a sign.

 **WELCOME TO  
** **WEATHER STATION Z/41**

It, like everything else, was partially frosted over. They moved down the length of the metal and glass tunnel, their movements slow and cautious. As they reached the end of it, where it terminated in another closed door, a subtle vibration ran through the entire area, and he heard a loud metallic groan resonate all around him.

"Oh come _on!_ " Izzy whispered harshly.

Greg stepped up to the door, found the manual release, and forced it open. He stepped carefully into the next room, another antechamber, and cleared it with a sweep of his shotgun. It was a simple metal cube with three more ways to go. There were helpful signs placed over each door. Right led to the living quarters, left led to the weather control room, dead ahead were the utilities.

"All right, we're going to do a simple sweep and clear. You should take the weather control. If there is any data to recover, you have a better chance of doing so. I'll clear the living quarters. Keep an eye out for survivors, stay in contact over the radio."

"Got it," she replied tightly. She hesitated. "Good luck."

"You too."

They split up. His door was partially open, and it took him a moment to force it the rest of the way. Once it was open, he made his way down another corridor, and again the entire thing shook slightly and a metallic groan filled the air. His stomach turned over and filled with ice. To be honest, he'd rather be facing down more Flood. If this thing went down, they were probably going down with it. There really wasn't an alternative.

Greg tried to find a compromise between speed and safety, moving down the corridor and coming to another crossroads area. Three more doors awaited him. This time his choices were Dormitories, Cafeteria, and Infirmary. The infirmary seemed like a good first place to start, though he didn't hold out much hope for finding any survivors here. As he moved up to the door and went through the process of getting it open, he felt another tremor run through the installation's superstructure. He ignored it as best he could and slipped into the room beyond, glad for the windows and the natural light, bleak and gray though it was.

It showed him that the infirmary was largely untouched, save for some electrical damage. Clearly, several pieces of equipment had overloaded. Screens were blown out, scorch marks had been seared into the walls in some places, the floor had pieces of metal and shards of glass spilled across it. Greg moved into the room, the glass crunching beneath his boots, and he quickly checked any conceivable hiding place. The cabinets were empty, the storage closet vacant, the simple bathroom at the back of the room derelict.

As he slipped back out into the crossroads and made for the cafeteria, he jumped as his radio crackled to life. _"Bad news. Over."_

He forced himself to relax, hating how keyed up he was. "What's wrong? Over."

" _Found two dead personnel here in the control room. They were hit by overloading equipment, fried pretty much. Over."_

"Damn...what about the data? Any chance of recovery? Over."

" _Maybe. Not all of this stuff is fried. Let me keep looking. Over."_

"Understood. Out."

The door to the cafeteria opened up easily enough, and he performed a quick search of it. As he poked through more niches and hiding places, the station shuddered and groaned twice more, and it seemed to be louder and last longer each time, but that could be his imagination. He finished his search, again finding nothing, (save for some food, the most preserved of which he tossed into his pack, because he wasn't sure if there would be enough time to come back for more), and finally moved onto the dorms.

As he got the door open and found himself in a hallway with several doors, his radio once more crackled. _"Good news and bad news. Over."_

"Go. Over."

" _It looks like the core database is actually intact. The bad news is that it has no power. We'll need an independent power source to hook up to it, or maybe we can get the generator going. Over,"_ Izzy explained.

"I thought this place had _some_ power left. Over," Greg replied, remembering the functional lights on the way down.

" _It does, but it's emergency power and it's failing. Some stuff over here still does have power, though it's obvious the doors lost their circuit. I might be able to figure something out from here. I'll get back to you. Over."_

"Understood. I'm almost finished-oh crap."

" _What? What's wrong? Over."_

"Uh...just found a dead body. Someone froze to death in their sleep, it looks like...over." He had been working his way through a series of dormitories, which were little more than very small rooms meant for individuals, (at least they didn't have to double up), and found an unmoving, frozen-over corpse in one of the beds. He shined his flashlight over them and found himself looking at a pale blonde woman. She looked almost peaceful. He felt a stab of grief, and a thought that was almost like a bomb, in that it was both extremely powerful and packed with intense meaning and deep emotions, and just burst open all at once, hit him.

Who was she? What was her history? Did she have family left? Who were her friends? Was she in a relationship? Where was she at in her life? What were her goals? Her dreams? Her fears? What emotional trauma did she carry? Was she trying to work past it? Did she have a pet somewhere? Did she die happy?

These questions, and dozens more, hit him all at once because this was a narrative path that he'd been down so many times now. He'd seen so many dead people, seen people dying with blood pumping out of them. He'd seen panic and terror and rage and disbelief and, sometimes, relief. Too much lately he'd seen that look, it felt like.

That look that said: _Finally, it's over. The suffering is done. Finally._

" _...said are you still there, Greg? Over."_

He shook his head. He'd lost focus there for a second. "Sorry. Still here. Try to find some way of getting power to that core. We need that data. Out."

Greg quickly finished searching the dorms, and found no other bodies. By his count, judging from the way the bedrooms seemed stocked, it appeared that there should be four personnel here. Unless someone was doubling up, which was possible. So far, they'd found three, but he had doubts that anyone had made it out of here alive, unless there was another way off this platform. Which was also possible.

After finishing his sweep, Greg began making his way back. "On my way to you again, Izzy. Over."

" _Good. We'll meet in the middle. Over,"_ she replied, and her voice doubled as he drew closer to the central room and saw her coming down the opposite hallway towards him.

"What'd you find?" he asked.

"That the answer isn't in the control room. If I can find a battery or a power cell of some kind, I can hook it to the workstation in question, and just download the data to a datapad that we can easily bring with us," she explained.

"Then let's get into the utilities wing and track one down, this place is making me nervous," he replied, and as if to punctuate his sentence, the whole structure once more shuddered and groaned. Okay, it was _definitely_ getting worse.

They stepped up to the door and began the process of getting it open. They managed to hit the manual release, and started to pry it open, but it stopped after just three inches, jamming hard in its frame, and no amount of effort, no force they could muster, would move it even another millimeter. After five minutes of furious effort, they finally gave up.

"Damn! Now what?!" Izzy snapped, kicking the frame.

As if in response, the installation shuddered again.

"There has to be another way in," Greg replied, looking around.

"I don't think-wait!" She sighed and looked back in the direction of the control room. "There is, I think, but it's...ugly."

"What is it?"

"I found a ladder that leads to an emergency hatch on the roof. There's a good chance each section has one..."

Greg considered it, then sighed heavily. "Okay, fine. Let's just do this and get it over with," he replied.

They moved swiftly back down the left corridor and as they came into the room beyond, Greg swept it quickly with his gaze. He spied the two corpses slumped and frosted over on the floor, and quickly turned away from them, instead hunting for the ladder. Had to remain focused. He spotted the ladder in the corner, bolted firmly to the wall, and marched up to it. Looking up, he saw the hatch at the top. He mounted the ladder, climbed up it, and punched the open button at the top, hoping against hope that the hatch's power didn't run on the same circuit as the doors', and that it would still have power. This time, hope won out.

The hatch opened. Immediately, a cold wind shrieked in through the opening. Greg stepped up, poking his head through the opening and scanning the immediate vicinity.

"No hostiles," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the winds. He hauled himself up and out of the hole, onto a platform with security railings for a perimeter, and then turned around. Offering a hand to Izzy, he helped her up and out.

"Man, you're the real deal, you know that?" she asked.

"What?"

"No hesitation, no fear, you just climb up onto the roof of this unstable building that may or may not have hostiles crawling across it."

"I'm afraid," Greg replied, then turned and began walking towards a path of security railings that led to another platform ahead of them, over the utilities sector.

"Could've fooled me!" Izzy replied as the winds gusted harder.

They fell silent as they made their way across the roof. The winds were picking up and although there were safety rails along the guided path, it still felt way too dangerous up here. There was ice everywhere and he admittedly kept getting distracted by the view. It was stunning. He could see for miles and miles, dozens, hundreds maybe. They were at the edge of a vast, dark gray sea. The water churned beneath them a few hundred meters down, adding to the sounds of the shrieking wind. Greg honed his attention on the hatch they were heading towards. The path led straight to it. He kept putting one foot in front of the other.

Halfway there, another shudder vibrated through the building, and it felt far more powerful out here. He felt his stomach once more flash-freeze in pure terror and had to fight the urge to turn around and sprint towards the exit. And he did, he fought it off, instead forcing himself to keep going. He still had his fear, even after all this time, but he'd gotten very good at restraining it, sometimes even locking it up, though never completely.

Fear was there for a reason. Often times it could blind you if you let it, but it was like a barometer for danger. Sometimes your fear knew things that you hadn't even picked up on yet, and that was instinct, and it had saved his life more times than he cared to count. Right now though, the danger was obvious, so he put the fear where it belonged and kept forcing himself onward until he got to the hatch. Crouching, Greg opened it and looked down through the opening. Just a ladder and part of a room, nothing else.

He made his way down as soon as Izzy got into position to defend him if need be, and as soon as he was off the ladder, he got his shotgun firmly back into his grasp and called out to her, taking his turn standing guard while she came down. They'd come to a storage area, the walls lined with shelves and crates.

"I should be able to find a cell here," Izzy said quietly.

"All right, I'll check out this section," Greg replied.

She nodded and began her search, and Greg moved over to the only door in the room and started his own. He got the door open and stepped out into the hallway. He flicked his flashlight on and played the pale beam down the corridor he'd stepped into. Behind him was the door that wouldn't open, across from him was another door, and a final door rested at the end of the corridor. He didn't see anything in the dark passageway with him, lit only by the sunlight filtering in through the barely-open door behind him and the hatch they'd come through back in the storage room. He shivered at the cold seeping in through his uniform and got a move on.

The door on the right led to a room packed with pipes and septic gear, which mercifully hadn't erupted during the solar storm, or since then. He cleared the room and moved on, making his way to what was hopefully the last door in this building. He hit the manual release and pried it open. It was a little stuck, but finally he managed to shove it into its niche. The final room held the generator and heating elements, and everything inside was dark and dead and cold...including the corpse that his flashlight revealed.

Another poor soul who'd been hit by a massive overload or discharge, he couldn't even tell any real distinguishing facts about the body as he studied it. It was blackened to a crisp, the clothing fused with the flesh. The smell of burned meat was still on the air and he quickly finished his sweep, then returned to Izzy.

"Found it...what's wrong?" she asked, turning to him, holding a compact, square block of silver tech maybe four inches tall.

"Found probably the last person here," he replied tightly. "They were in the main generator room when the storm hit, apparently. Massive discharge hit them."

"I hate this place," she muttered.

The installation again shuddered, and it was even worse this time, as if voicing its own displeasure with the two of them.

"Seconded, let's get the hell out of here," he replied.

They went back to the ladder and climbed up, heading once more into the cold. Once they were back on the roof, they started heading back towards the hatch. Greg ran through what was left to do in his head. All they had to do was to get back to the control room, hook the power cell up, download the data files, (if they were even there), and then they could get out of this metal deathtrap and be back on their journey-

Something made him look up.

Greg froze as he saw a trio of dark figures standing atop the cliff sheer ten meters up, where he and Izzy had been standing not all that long ago.

Izzy bumped into him. "Why'd you stop?" she asked. "What-oh my God."

He was just beginning to wonder if maybe the fact that their right arms looked bigger was some kind of potential distortion of distance or weather, not wanting to believe that he was looking at three Combat Forms, three Flood, but then one of them launched itself into the air and began sailing down towards them.

"Go," he said, and started running, tracking the thing with his eyes.

Holy crap it was going to land right-

 _CLANG!_

The Combat Form slammed into the roof directly in his path, denting the metal, and the entire structure shook violently. Greg raised his shotgun and blew its chest out, sending it flying backwards. "Incoming!" Izzy yelled.

"Keep going!" he snapped, and stepped hastily over the corpse. They'd just about made it to the hatch when two more heavy clangs sounded. They both took aim as the Flood monsters began closing in on them, pounding across the icy metal rooftop apparently without a problem. The one he'd focused on had landed very close, within three meters, and he blew its chest out without a problem. The force of the blast picked it up and threw it backwards. He heard Izzy fire off a blast and twisted around, seeing she'd done the same.

"I think that's-" He looked back up. There were a half-dozen more shadows up there. "Crap. Down. Now."

She disappeared through the hatch, opting to just jump through it. He winced as she hit the floor, and then he mounted the ladder, only so that he could close the hatch. As he finished and got off it, the entire station shook again, and this time it was much more violently, the metallic groaning sound terribly loud. One of the windows cracked before the tremors subsided. A second later he heard as much as felt a series of heavy thuds as the Flood landed overhead. Greg shot a look across the room. Izzy was already at the workstation, crouched by it and fumbling with the cell. She worked quickly, hooking the power cell up and then powering the workstation on.

"How long?" he asked.

"I don't know," she admitted. "Do we _really_ need this?"

"We might. We have no idea how important it could be," he replied. "Just hurry."

"I'm already going as fast as I can."

The seconds began to bleed by as first the workstation powered on, then she began sorting through menus and files. Greg fed two more shells into the shotgun and stared up at the hatch. He heard footfalls, heavy ones, drawing closer. Tension sang in his body as he waited, listening to the footfalls and to Izzy working, muttering occasionally to herself. After what felt like way too long, she finally spoke up.

"Okay, I got it! The last file to be recorded before their systems were fired, this is probably the only one we need," she said, typing rapidly.

"I hope so, because I think that's all we've got time for. How long?" he replied.

"Sixty seconds to transfer," she answered after a moment.

 _This is going to be a very long sixty seconds,_ he thought miserably, and took a few steps back, towards the center of the room.

Time went by.

The superstructure vibrated again, and again, each time feeling more powerful than the last, the curious metallic groaning sounding like a threat that sent terror shivering through his skeleton. Twenty seconds passed. Then thirty. Then forty. The footsteps were over the hatch now, wandering back and forth. One of them wandered off, he thought, heading towards the nearest edge. Hopefully the damned thing wandered right over it and fell into the frigid waters below. They still might be able to get out of this situation without too much trouble.

"Done!" Izzy hissed, slipping the datapad into her pocket.

"Let's go, now," he replied, already heading for the door.

They reached it and began hurrying down the hallway. They were halfway down it when Greg heard a thump from overhead. He looked up.

A Flood was looking down at him, (inasmuch as it could, he didn't see any eyes!), through the window in the ceiling.

He shouted a warning and then it raised one foot, which still had the remnants of a boot clinging to it, and then brought it down. The glass smashed to pieces, raining down on them, and the Combat Form dropped into the corridor with them. Greg took aim, and then shouted as the entire structure jerked violently, this time hard enough to throw him off his feet. He scrambled to readjust his aim, but Izzy snapped for him to stay down and fired over him, blowing a fist-sized hole through the Combat Form's chest and killing it.

"I hate these things!" she snapped, helping him to his feet.

"You and me both let's _go!_ " he replied as the weather station shook again. And this time it didn't stop shaking. The groaning became a constant thing and windows began shattering. Cracks appeared in the walls, ripping open into tears through which sky and rock and ocean could be seen, as the pair sprinted into the initial transitional chamber, broke right, and kept on sprinting. Greg felt pure, mindless terror screaming through him now as the whole thing started coming down around them. All he could think of was running, sprinting dead ahead, making it through that door and through the next door and up the stairs and back out into the light with Izzy.

He could feel the floor start to come out from beneath him.

The last few meters felt like years.

And then he was through, tripping at the last second and smashing into the floor, knowing that he was almost certainly safe. The initial underground room had actually been built into the cliff sheer. Greg twisted around immediately, prepared to offer any and all help he could if Izzy needed it, but she was just entering, and she managed to stay on her feet. Until she tripped over him and fell onto the floor beside him.

Through the door, he saw the whole research station falling away. It was gone within seconds, and all that was left was dim gray skies.


	20. Chapter 20: Rescue Op

After finally managing to get to their feet, the pair headed back upstairs and into the cold. Only a single Combat Form was lingering in the area, apparently not as eager as its comrades to leap to its doom, and Izzy put it down with a quick shotgun blast. They both climbed back into the Warthog and Greg began the process of trying to get in touch with Becker again. It took a lot longer than he wanted, and not because of incompetency on the other end. For a long time, there was only static, and he began to wonder if something had happened.

Finally, the radio crackled and a voice rose through the haze of static. _"I hear you, Corporal. This is Becker. Over."_

Greg sighed with relief. "We have your data, but nearly died getting it. The entire damned building collapsed while we were still in it. And there's Flood around. Over."

" _Holy crap,"_ he muttered, _"you two continue to impress me. Thank you. Can you send me the data now? I'm afraid I find myself in need of a few capable Marines again. Over."_

"Sending the data now. Over," Greg replied, glancing at Izzy. She had hooked the datapad up to the Warthog's communications system. She worked it quickly and a progress bar appeared on the dashboard screen.

" _We're receiving. Excellent. I'm sorry I have to keep dumping this on you, it's just that...as far as I know, you're literally our only assets out there. I haven't had contact with anyone else in your region. Over."_

Greg felt the urge to complain, but quashed it ruthlessly. He'd been letting this whole thing get to him, and he knew that was a path he couldn't go down, a path he refused to go down. "We're Marines, it's what we do. What's the mission, Sergeant? Over."

" _I'm very glad to hear that. At the moment, comms are very sketchy. There's a communications relay about ten miles up the road from you. We're getting nothing from it, and if you could do for it what you did for the comms on Polaris, that would help a lot of people. It also happens to be the rough location of where our recon team was before they went dark. Over."_

"Understood, Sergeant. We'll see what we can do about the team and make any repairs that we can. Over."

The upload finished. _"Data received. Good luck. Out."_

Greg started up the Warthog as Izzy pulled the datapad out of the dash and replaced it in one of her hardened pockets. He glanced over at her. "You ready?"

"Hell yeah. You're right, we're Marines, this is what we do. They can't stop us," she replied firmly, and he could hear a grim grin in her voice. All he could see through her visor was her eyes, and they were alight with passion and fire.

He started driving.

* * *

" _Where do they come from, do you think?"_ Izzy asked.

They had to talk over their helmet radios, as the winds made it too hard to hear otherwise. They'd been driving for a bit now, most of the way there. They hadn't said much.

"The Flood?"

" _Yeah."_

He sighed. "I mean, I heard that Halo thing, whatever it was. But I guess that's not true. I mean, not exclusively. Not unless I'm missing something."

" _I mean originally."_

"I don't know." He thought about it. "They're like monsters, like a living weapon almost. Maybe someone built them a long time ago."

" _What a bunch of assholes,"_ Izzy muttered irritably.

He chuckled. "Yeah, definitely. But it's not like humans are clean in that regard."

" _Oh yeah, we're a bunch of assholes, too. Every species probably is. I think-"_ She stopped speaking abruptly as a burst of static came over the line. Greg immediately began slowing the Warthog down. He listened closely.

" _...zzt...requesting assistance...zzt...body in the area...zzt...immediate assistance..."_

"This is Corporal Walker with the UNSC Marines, I read you, over!" he said, now bringing the Warthog to a complete stop and parking it on the side of the road. He shot to his feet, standing in the seat and looking around. Lots of snow-capped trees, lots of ice fields around, more mountains in the distance, as always.

" _...ear you! This is...zzt...need help! Under attack! I'm-ocated-cabin!...zzt..."_

"Where are you? You're breaking up!" Greg said.

He thought he heard something else, but then the voice was gone.

"He has to be close," Izzy said.

"Yeah, that was short-range radio..." Greg scanned the area once more, and finally he saw something: a gravel road maybe a hundred meters ahead of them, disappearing into a thick forest, just barely visible.

He sat back down and started driving again. Pushing the pedal down, the Warthog took off probably faster than was safe, given the conditions. But it was built for snow and by now Greg thought he had a pretty good handle on it. He barely managed to hit the brakes, swing it around onto the gravel road, and speed back without driving off the road or even flipping the thing. If Izzy was worried, she kept it to herself, which he appreciated. The road ahead of them was almost like an enclosed space, like driving down a canyon of frozen wood to either side, the trees standing tall and ominous. He thought he could see dark shapes moving among them.

Greg ignored them and just focused on keeping the Warthog on the road. It would be way too easy to spin out and slam into a tree. After about a minute, he thought he heard gunshots over the sound of the engine, but that might just be his imagination. He could feel the weight of the situation bearing down on him. Someone's life was probably in his hands right now. Either he'd get there in time to help them or he wouldn't and they'd be dead because of that. Sometimes, maybe even most of the time, there was no way to help, no way he could have made it there in time, but Greg still felt every loss that resulted from a situation like this with a keen bitterness.

"Structure!" Izzy called, her voice painfully loud in his helmet, though he didn't blame her. It was too easy to get caught up in the moment like this and shout into your radio.

Greg saw it a second later in a clearing off to the right. He definitely saw some Flood advancing across the simple road, towards what looked like a cabin or maybe a small house. Greg punched it the last few meters and crashed into a trio of the awful, misshapen monsters, sending them flying. There were a good dozen of the things in plain view, and he saw two that did _not_ match what he'd seen so far. He knew what they were, though.

Carrier Forms.

"Deal with the Combat Forms! I'll get the Carriers!" he called.

Izzy shouted something that was lost as he stood up in his chair, shouldered his shotgun, and blasted away. He wasn't sure if it had the range to properly kill the hideous, bloated, sickly pale thing that was currently waddling towards him from out of the treeline, but he thought it would at least slow it down.

As it turned out, it _was_ at an effective kill range.

Almost the second he squeezed the trigger the thing popped like a balloon and sent two nearby Combat Forms flying away. One hit the road farther down, the other slammed into a tree. And from the shredded, pulpy remains of the bloated thing that had just been there, he saw movement, and knew he was seeing yet a second new type of Flood. Infection Forms. He'd studied up as much as he could on them, but the reading from the data packet Becker had sent over was slim. He'd internalized this though: don't let them get close.

Of course that was true of _every_ Flood form.

Greg readjusted his aim as a half-dozen of the hideous Infection Forms began to come at him in a cluster, throwing off the pulped remains of the Carrier. He shuddered in revulsion as his finger tightened on the trigger. Those things were just _inside_ of the Carrier? Alive? Writhing around? He couldn't even properly see them, except to note that they looked kind of like bulbous heads bobbing along the snowy ground.

Since he didn't particularly feel like getting a good look at them, he squeezed the trigger, then gave a short shout in surprise. Every last one of them popped, sending shreds of their greenish-gray flesh splattering across the landscape. A syrupy, pale green blood accompanied the bits of flesh and gore. His stomach rumbled rebelliously, threatening him with vomit. Greg forced it down, shifted aim, and blasted a hole through the chest of a Combat Form that was getting too close. He killed a second one and then hopped down out of the Warthog.

The second Carrier was getting too close for comfort. He took aim and squeezed the trigger. At that exact moment, he heard Izzy shout a warning and something heavy smashed into him from the side. His shot went wild and he fought to stay upright, barely managed to keep on his feet, and swung around to face this new threat. A Combat Form was rearing back for another blow. Where had it come from!? He aimed and fired, blowing the cluster of tentacles that served it as an arm off, then shifted and fired again, putting a shell into its chest and killing it. He twisted around, knowing the Carrier Form had to be closer by now.

It was. Too close.

He began to aim, and then a three-round burst from a battle rifle came from somewhere behind him, nailed it, and popped it. Greg cried out as he was slammed up against the side of the Warthog. Again, he somehow managed to stay upright, pain splintering his thoughts, shooting through him in hot white streaks of agony, and he brought his shotgun to bear once more, then blew away the cluster of Infection Forms that emerged.

Staggering back to his feet, he performed a quick sweep of the battlefield surrounding him, and saw Izzy putting down what turned out to be the final Combat Form. He waited, panting, grimacing, and then slowly lowered his shotgun.

"You okay?" Izzy asked.

"Yeah. Where'd that bastard come from?" Greg growled, feeding a few more shells into his shotgun.

"Leaped out of the trees. They can jump like crazy," she muttered.

"Apparently. You get a look at my savior?" he asked.

"No. Saw the flash of the battle rifle being fired from inside the cabin, but nothing else since then," she replied.

"Well, at least he's alive." Greg came around to her side of the Warthog. "Hello in there! Can you hear me?" He waited. Nothing. "United Nations Marines! Respond!" Still nothing. "Great," he muttered.

"You want me to go in with you?" Izzy asked as he started marching for the front door.

"No. Secure the perimeter," he replied.

"Got it." She slipped off around the right side of the building as he got up to the front door. Definitely a little cabin, some privately owned retreat that was probably a haven during the summertime. Now it just looked bleak and miserable.

Greg knocked on the door. "I'm coming in," he said, and waited. He thought he could hear heavy breathing. He opened the door. It let on a room about the size of the whole cabin and from his immediate view he could see a living room, a bedroom, and a kitchen all in one area. A man, a Marine in white camo, was sitting in the kitchen, on the floor, his back to some cabinets, bumping them repeatedly as he rocked.

"Identify yourself," Greg said.

The man slowly looked up. His eyes were wide. "P-PFC Larsen," he managed.

"We're clear, Larsen," Greg said, coming in and closing the door behind him. He quickly secured the rest of the cabin, finding just a bathroom and a closet that were both empty. "I need a report, Larsen," he said, slowly crossing the room.

"I-I can't...I don't...oh man..." he whispered. "They're all dead. M-my team. And-and-and..." He seemed to lose his train of thought.

Greg crouched in front of him. "Look at me, Larsen," he said. The Marine kept staring at the floor. Greg planted his hands on his armored shoulders. This could go bad at any second. He'd seen people flip out, lose their shit, and go nuts any number of ways, but he'd dealt with it before. "Larsen," he said, and gave him a small shake. " _Look_ at me. Look into my eyes."

Some of the panic in his gaze seemed to clear and he looked up, focusing on Greg's eyes. "I-I don't know what's going on. I was running, just running...felt like forever, m-man. Felt like-"

"Say teacup," Greg said, interrupting him.

He blinked a few times. " _What?_ " he asked with a lot more clarity, regarding Greg as if he'd gone insane.

"Say the word 'teacup', right now," Greg demanded.

"T-teacup."

"Again."

"Teacup," he said, and his voice steadied out. He blinked a few more times, looked around slowly, then settled his gaze back on Greg. "What the hell, man? _Why_ did that work?"

Greg chuckled and released him, then sat down on the floor, groaning as the aches and pains of the past several days began to assault him again. "No idea. Some British Sergeant taught me that during my first tour. It works more often than you'd think. If you start freaking out again, run multiplication tables in your head. Two times two?" he asked.

"Four," Larsen muttered, glancing out the window as Izzy walked past it. "What's that?" he whispered.

"That's just my partner, Izzy. Two times three?"

"Six-okay, yeah. I got it. Don't...ugh, you're going to give me flashbacks to elementary school, dude. You wanna talk about PTSD..." he muttered, and then groaned and rubbed his eyes.

Greg laughed. "Yeah, I feel you there." He took a deep breath and let it out as a long sigh. "You ready to talk, Larsen?"

"Yeah, yeah...I'm here now. I'm sorry, I've never lost my shit before like that. But it was...these things, man, they're _bad._ "

"Oh yeah, one hundred percent with you on that one."

"Wait, uh...who _are_ you, exactly?"

"Corporal Walker. My friend is Lance Corporal Serrano. We're from off-world. We were called in to help and our Pelicans got hit by the solar storm. We were the only survivors," Greg explained.

"Off-world? Wait, you're from that island? Polaris?" Greg nodded as Izzy came in through the front door.

"All clear out there," she said.

"Becker told us we needed to be on the lookout for you if you made it out. The island was our ultimate destination. Holy crap, I can't believe you made it here," Larsen muttered.

"We made it," Greg replied. "But I need to know what happened. Where's the rest of your team? Becker managed to get in touch with us, told us to find you all."

Larsen's features fell and he looked back down at the tiled kitchen floor. "I'm the only one left, and...yeah, I can confirm it. Everyone else is KIA. I saw each one with my own eyes. We ran into one problem after another. We had one Carrier Warthog. It crashed when one of the damned bloaters was in the perfect wrong place at the wrong time. Lost one in the crash. We tried to get to another structure to see if we could find another vehicle. Got there and found the place just _infested_ with the bastards. Lost _two_ in that battle. Ultimately we tried to keep going with our mission, kept going and going and going...they picked us off until it was just me."

"I'm sorry," Greg said quietly.

"Yeah. Me too." He shook his head. "I don't even know how I survived. I guess I wouldn't have if you hadn't shown up."

"What happened to your radio?" Izzy asked.

He sighed and yanked his helmet off. "Piece of crap shorted out. I was in the blast zone of one of those bloaters and my head hit a rock. I was okay...I think, but my long-range radio took a hit. All I had left was the short-range," he growled.

"Lemme see," Izzy said, holding out her hand. He passed her his helmet and she set it down on the counter, then pulled out her toolkit.

"It saved your life," Greg said. "Never would've heard you otherwise." He slowly got to his feet, popping a few joints and his neck, trying to relieve the tension that had built there. "So what's your job?" he asked.

"Scout. Everyone more useful is dead," he muttered.

"Hey, everyone's useful," he replied immediately. "You made it this far, you've obviously got some survival skills. At this point, _we_ are the most valuable resource. People. Now, I need you to focus, because I need your help."

"With what?"

"We were heading for a communications relay. You likely would have passed it on the way here. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

He slowly began to shake his head. "I don't-" He hesitated. "Oh crap. Yes. I did. I saw it. It's on the other side of that forest out there, maybe a mile up. I was going to get to it but there were a lot more Flood hanging around it so I just kept going."

"All right, that's our next stop then. Now..." Greg considered his words carefully as he looked at Larsen's pale, anxiety-ridden face. "I'm not going to order you to come with us. I'm going to ask you. Because I'll be honest, I need your help. Having another Marine along would be invaluable right now, given the odds we're facing. But if you genuinely want to sit this one out...then you could probably hole up here in this cabin and wait for rescue. Becker's coming this way eventually. He intends to make Polaris a base of operations, so there's a decent chance you could wait it out here. But I'm asking you for your help, Larsen."

He looked more anxious than ever, grimacing, looking away from Greg, around the cabin, and Greg waited. This really struck him as one of those make-or-break moments, and he had the suspicion that whatever decision Larsen made would be a self-fulfilling prophecy. If he didn't feel like he was going to be up to it, then Greg didn't want him along, because he would likely get himself killed. But if he felt like he could get his crap together and fight like he'd been trained to, then he'd probably do okay.

Obviously there was no guarantee. He could die here at the cabin or he could die feeling confident in Greg's and Izzy's company.

"You really think I can help?" he asked, his gaze finally meeting Greg's again.

"I think so. I think this is a terrifying, desperate, dangerous situation, and...I think we were trained for this. You've fought before, right?"

"I mean, yeah. Covenant. Been through a few battles."

"And you made it through that. I mean, don't get me wrong, I get it. These things are horrifying. I hate them. But this is what we do. People are counting on us. Plus, hey, you even managed to save my life with that shot. Knocked my ass against the Warthog, but if that big bastard had gotten any closer I'd probably be dead."

"I barely remember that," he muttered. "I just saw it and..."

"Reacted. You reacted. Like you were trained to do. And trained well, evidently."

He sighed and nodded. "All right. I'll go with you. I'll help you do this."

"Thank you, Larsen," he said, then offered the man his hand. Larsen took it and Greg hauled him to his feet. "How's it looking?" he asked, glancing at Izzy.

"Busted," she said, closing the helmet. She passed it back to Larsen. "Sorry. You'll need a replacement."

"I figured," he muttered, taking it and securing it over his head again. He reached down and grabbed his battle rifle. "I'm ready."

"Good. Let's search this cabin for supplies and then move out."


	21. Chapter 21: The Comms Tower

There was nothing in the cabin but a few cans of beans, which Greg took and added to their supply in the back of the Snow Hog. Despite how useful it would have been, he was extremely grateful that the vehicle came with a cargo hold instead of a chaingun. Finding the beans made him aware of how hungry he was. How long had it been since he'd last eaten? Not that long, surely. But he frowned as he hopped up into the driver's seat and began going over a timeline. How long _had_ it been? He was still thinking about that when Izzy climbed in beside him.

"You okay? What's up?" she asked.

"I'm just realizing how much shit we've done today," he replied. "Since we woke up."

"It hasn't been that much. When we woke up we searched for the stuff to repair the radio, and then we went to the mining complex and fought the Flood, and then..." she hesitated.

"Yeah. Right after we got up, we took a drive out to the comms tower, and then we searched the base over for supplies, and that ate up like four hours. Then we went to the mining complex, and back up to the tower again, and back to base, another hour. Then we took like two, two and half hours to get ready after we contacted Becker. Then we spent a good two hours at least down in that damned tunnel, maybe even pushing three hours. I'd say, altogether, since we've woken up today, we've been going almost nonstop for going on ten, maybe eleven hours..." He glanced up at the sky. It was noticeably darker than when he'd first received the distress call from Larsen.

"I _am_ starving, and dead on my feet," Izzy muttered reluctantly.

Greg considered it further. "We need to bunk down for the night," he muttered. "Larsen, do you know of any other structures around besides this one and the comms tower?"

"Nothing closer," he replied.

Greg sighed. "Well, those two are our literal choices. Unless we want to drive back to the tunnel and maybe sleep in some of the cars there, or try to lay some bedding down in that generator room. This cabin _could_ work, but it would suck, and the weather station is completely gone. So...yeah," he glanced at the sky again, "we shouldn't keep going for much longer. Because I'm starting to reach my limit, and because doing this during the day is dangerous enough. So, those are our literal choices. Tunnel, this cabin, or the comms tower."

"Well, the comms tower is our best bet. But even if it's trashed, it isn't that far away. We can drive back here if we _really_ have to," Izzy said.

"Yeah, makes sense. All right," he started up the Warthog, "let's do this."

Greg began driving. He tried to get in touch with Becker as he headed back to the main road, then started moving along it again, keeping an eye out for the comms relay. But it was no good. There was nothing but static on the airwaves, and he was forced to give up after several minutes as he spied the next road that led off to the right, past the forest of dead trees. A sign gave a stern warning about military property, which was very comforting to Greg as he temporarily abandoned his effort to reach Becker and drove on.

Up ahead, he could see the dark bulk of the comms array, which was a huge satellite dish mounted on a three-story tower, nestled in a field of ice in between two forests of skeletal trees. It was surrounded by a fence that had been ripped open or collapsed in several places, and he saw several lumbering shapes moving about.

"All right, Larsen, show me that hand/eye coordination!" Greg called as he rolled to a stop about ten meters shy of the parking lot beyond the razorwire fence. He counted over a dozen Combat Forms and they were all starting to take notice of them. Greg wanted to bring the hostiles towards them, and it looked like that was going to be the easy part. Killing them quickly enough might be the harder part, because when they started moving, they _really_ started moving.

"On it, Corporal!" Larsen replied and shot to his feet.

As he began opening fire with his battle rifle, Greg and Izzy dismounted from the vehicle, shotguns at ready. The Combat Forms were sprinting mindlessly towards them now. Greg felt a wave of icy fear ripple through him and tried to ignore it, but there was a deep discomfort in its wake. He focused on the task at hand. He immediately saw that the skill with which the man had saved his life earlier was no fluke. The first three-round burst connected squarely with the chest of the lead Combat Form, and blew it out in a spray of pale green gore that stained the ice and snow around it as it toppled over onto its back. Immediately, Larsen fired again, and repeated the process, putting down a second Flood.

Greg and Izzy held their ground, shotguns at ready, in case any of them got close enough. But Larsen was a quick and accurate shot, and only two of them managed to rush the Warthog, and they were put down easily enough with shotgun blasts. Just about the time they were starting to wrap it up, and Greg felt like they had finally gotten through an encounter without running into a serious problem, he heard a very deep, oddly familiar growl come from his right. His heart leaped into his throat as his stomach dropped out and he turned sharply.

And he saw.

"Oh _shit!_ " he screamed.

"What- _drub!_ " Izzy yelled.

"What the hell is that?!" Larsen demanded, his voice shot through with panic.

Greg's mind froze for a split second, then rebooted and kickstarted _hard_. "Keep it away from the Warthog!" he snapped, racing away from it, strafing away from the front of the vehicle while also getting a bit closer to the drub. Izzy joined him, both of them raising their shotguns. "Hold your fire, Larsen! Until I say!" he screamed.

It wasn't _just_ a drub, though.

Honestly, Greg would have preferred a drub. Hell, he'd have taken _two_ of the mean bastards. Because what he was facing right now was an _infected_ drub. A drub that had been taken over by the Flood, something he hadn't even considered. He was still trying to process the fact that he was having to fight them at all, let alone the notion that they could infect the wildlife. Oh God, was he going to have to face infected vargs?

Time enough for that later.

If there was a later.

The infected drub looked like it had gained at least fifty percent in sheer bulk. Its fur and flesh had come off in several places, revealing a leathery, hardened hide beneath. Its chest was a lot bigger, and its limbs rippled with raw power and new musculature. Its claws looked enormous and tentacles had sprung from its broad back.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," Izzy groaned. "How are we going to do this?"

"Go for the chest, same as the others. Keep away from it," Greg replied quickly.

The mutated drub was slowly coming out of the dead forest, not quite heading for the Warthog, but not quite heading for them, either. It seemed to be making up its mind. Greg decided to help it out. He let his shotgun hang and pulled out his pistol, took aim, and fired a shot. It nailed the big bastard in its broad chest, but didn't seem to do a lot of damage. The thing turned towards him and regarded him with maddened, malignant red eyes.

It began coming towards him.

Not running or charging, but walking. And there was something even worse about that. Deciding now was as good a time as any, Greg zeroed in his sights on its misshapen head, hoping something important was there since its chest didn't exactly seem like a good target of opportunity, and opened fire. The M6G jerked in his grasp, and he heard a second pistol open up as Izzy joined him, keeping her distance from him and the Warthog for when they'd have to move, which would be soon, no doubt. The monstrous drub rushed them as the bullets began chewing into its flesh, driving geysers of decayed gore from its deformed body.

Greg emptied the magazine as he backed away. It went for Izzy. He hastily reloaded, holstered the pistol, and then brought his shotgun to bear as she dove out of the way. It swiped at her and came dangerously close to digging those huge claws into her. He took aim and squeezed the trigger. The shotgun sounded like a cannon going off, and echoed over the silent, frozen field that surrounded them. The shell hit it in the side of its barrel chest, and the beast roared and instantly turned towards him. So, its sides were more vulnerable…

Which usually meant-

"Larsen, get ready! Gonna lead it away from you, try to find a weak point on its back!" Greg called as he began backing away. "Same for you, Izzy!"

"Got it!" she called back.

"Understood!" Larsen said.

Now, he just had to not die. As he kept pumping shells into the oncoming drub, he realized that he'd faced down a pair of Hunters before and hadn't felt this threatened. He managed to get three more shells out, blowing bloody chunks of meat out of the titanic beast, before it came far too close for comfort and he turned and bolted. At the same time, he heard a shotgun blast and a three-round burst. Then a roar that seemed to go on for quite a long time and, beneath it, several more instances of gunfire.

Then a loud groan and a heavy thud.

He'd been running his ass off during this few-second interval, and as he heard that thud, Greg skidded to a halt, kicking up snow, and barely managed not to fall over. Turning around, he felt relief wash through him as he saw that the infected drub had been turned into an unmoving heap. He took a step and then felt his legs start to give out from beneath him. Giving a surprised, half-hearted shout, he went down on one knee and fought to stay upright.

"Greg!" Izzy called, and he heard her start coming for him.

He waved her off. "I'm okay," he managed. "Just...give me a minute. Make sure nothing else is coming up on us."

"...all right," she replied reluctantly.

He caught his breath, realizing that the day was truly beginning to come crashing down on him. Had he _really_ been at it for a dozen straight hours? More? He looked at the sky again. It was definitely darker now, the light draining from behind the thick gray cloud cover. Why was he _this_ tired? He could feel lethargy sapping what strength he had left, like that last attack had used up whatever he had left in his tank.

It wasn't like he'd been through some traumatic-

Greg froze mid-thought. Of course he had.

Falling out the back of a damned crashing Pelican.

Falling through the ice.

And all the other crap that he'd been through lately. He sighed heavily. He should have planned this better. Normally he was great about predicting his own limitations. Maybe that's where all that heavy irritation back at the weather station was coming from: his body trying to let him know that he was starting to redline, that he was coming dangerously close to empty.

"Just a little bit further," he whispered. "Almost there."

He didn't know if that was true, but he found that he desperately wanted to believe it. Greg managed to get back to his feet and took a look at the comms relay. It looked decently intact, despite the wrecked state of the fencing around it. Maybe the fence was just in poor repair. That seemed unlikely, but he'd seen side effects of budget cuts like that before, and this place had a 'budget-cut' kind of feel to it.

Fighting not to stagger, he rejoined the others, coming to stop by the drub.

"You okay?" Izzy asked quietly.

"Tired," he managed.

"Yeah, me too. I was just thinking you're doing really well for having gone through the ice yesterday," she murmured.

He just grunted, frowning as he stared at the tentacles growing out of the drub's back. "God, this thing...we're lucky it didn't get to use these," he muttered.

"Yeah. Larsen hit it. There's a spot on the back of its head, you see it?" she asked, pointing. He nodded. He saw it. "Weak spot. So now we know how to kill them, at least." A strong gust of freezing wind blasted across them. She shivered. "We should get inside."

"Yep," he agreed. "Let's get the gate open." He turned. "Larsen! Follow us in with the hog!" he called as the winds picked up.

"On it!" Larsen replied, and jogged over to the Warthog.

He and Izzy walked over and managed to get the gate open, and then closed again, without too much trouble, letting Larsen drive the thing slowly within the perimeter. Greg considered the situation for a few seconds, then had him drive around back. There was more forest back there, and he honestly wasn't sure where the most secure location was. There was a lot of supplies packed into the Warthog, and although he didn't really think there was anyone around...well, unlikelier things had happened. Like his own survival.

Finally, he settled on pulling a small but crucial piece from the engine and pocketing it as insurance. If someone wanted to steal it, they'd have to find another, as Warthogs had decently unique engines.

"Now what?" Larsen asked. He was shifting back and forth constantly, shivering. No doubt he was as freezing as he and Izzy. The suits and helmets had done good to keep them alive, but it had to be like twenty below out here right now.

"Inside," Greg replied. "I'm on point. We need to secure the structure."

They both responded affirmatively and followed him. He got his shotgun out and activated the flashlight as the approached a rear exit. He tried the button, but found the power to be out. Great. So the place was going to be a deep freeze. Just fantastic, if they didn't find a way to warm up, they were liable to freeze to death in their sleep. He found and hit the manual release, then pulled the door open, Izzy covering him with her shotgun in case there was anything inside ready to pop out and attack. But only a cold, mostly empty room awaited them. Greg turned his flashlight on and stepped inside, carefully clearing it.

The room was a simple ingress point. A place for boots and coats and other cold weather gear occupied the corner to his immediate right, and it was mostly empty. The only other thing in the room was a barren metal table. Two doors awaited them, both open. Greg walked to the one ahead and shined his light into a short corridor, finding more doors. He moved to the other one and found a stairwell, leading up.

"Larsen, can you clear the second story?" he asked, walking back to the door they'd come in through and wrangling it closed again.

"Uh, yeah, I can do that," he replied.

"Good. Your shortwave still works, so use it if you see anything."

"Understood."

He pulled out his pistol and turned on a flashlight mounted on his shoulder, then began making slow progress up the stairs.

"Come on," Greg said, and headed for the other door. Izzy followed. For the first few minutes, they worked in silence, sweeping the area room by room. They found an abandoned office, an empty bathroom, a similarly vacant entryway, and a storage room that was crammed with crates that all looked like they were meant to hold extra gear for the comms tower. As they finished searching that and then came into a small galley, Izzy finally broke the silence.

"That was good work, back there with Larsen," she murmured.

"You think so?" he replied, checking under a table.

"Yeah. Obviously. He's doing really well. He took down that infected drub. I would've..." she hesitated, then sighed. "I would've ordered him to give me his battle rifle and left him behind. I thought he was too gone to be of immediate use."

"You really would've left him?" he asked.

"Yeah. Like you said, Becket would've gotten there eventually. Probably...I don't like dead weight, Greg. I just, I guess, I'm still not that great at judging who's dead weight and who isn't."

Greg was silent for a few moments, considering her words. "I took a gamble," he replied finally. "I had a hunch, went with it. I could've been wrong. We got lucky. So far. You aren't entirely wrong. He could've been dead weight."

"I guess," she murmured, then she yawned. "Dammit, I'm so tired."

"I'm dead on my feet," he muttered.

"Yeah...hey, found the generator," she said as she peered through a door at the back of the room. She disappeared into it and after finishing his search, he went in after her and found her crouched by the generator, staring into an open panel.

"You are not gonna believe this," she muttered.

"What?"

"This thing is fine. It just ran out of juice," she said. "Just need to slot in a new power cell or two."

"Okay, you do that. I'm going to finish searching this floor." He left the room and keyed his radio. "How's it looking up there, Larsen? Over."

" _Good. I haven't found anyone, dead or alive. I think everyone just...left. I'm almost done, just one more to search, I think it's a rec room, over,"_ he replied. His voice sounded steady, at least.

"Excellent. Finish up and wait for me by the stairs to the third floor. It looks like we're going to be able to get power back very soon. Over."

" _Oh thank God!"_ Larsen cried. _"I'm so tired of freezing my ass off. Over."_

"Same. I'll be up in a bit. Out."

The final room on the ground floor turned out to be an infirmary, and it was a welcome sight, because Greg was starting to feel like crap. He prayed he wasn't getting sick, but that wouldn't really be out of the question after going through the ice. It didn't feel like sickness though, more just like he was pushing himself too hard. No surprise there. As he finished his search and began to head back to the generator room, there was suddenly the loud whir of power and several of the lights came on. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief and got a move on.

"You can thank me later on tonight when we head for bed," Izzy said, a small smile on her face as she closed the panel.

"Oh, I fully intend to," Greg replied. "How are we looking?"

"I found only one power cell. It's really looking like everyone cleared out of this place at some point, and I think they took some crucial stuff with them. Like power cells. But at current rate of consumption, it's got maybe two days of continuous use," she replied.

He frowned. "We've gotta find a way to stretch that for as long as we can."

"Well, I can shut down power to most of the building, leave it dark and cold...but before we do that, I figured we'd want to make at least brief use of some of the facilities."

"Yes. I want us all to get checked out by the infirmary, and I want a real goddamned meal, if that's even possible. But first and foremost, we need to fully secure this structure and finish searching it. I want you to lockdown all exterior exits. Once you're done, join us on the third floor. I'm guessing that's where they put the comms equipment," he said.

"Good guess. I'll be there," she replied, and got to her feet. "Greg."

He paused, turned. "Yeah?" She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the lips. "What was that for?" he murmured after she was done.

"I wanted to," she replied.

"Oh. Well, I'm really glad you wanted to...okay, I've gotta get back to work," he said, more to himself than to her, because he wanted to hang around and kiss her some more.

"Uh-huh," she replied, her smile growing a bit.

As he began heading deeper into the outpost, making for Larsen's location, he promised himself again that he was almost there.

This day was turning out to be way, way too long.

But it was almost over.


	22. Chapter 22: In For the Night

"Moment of truth," Izzy muttered. She sat in a chair, and Greg and Larsen stood behind her, all three of them bathed in the glow of the primary workstation in the communications control room that sat at the top of the tower, just beneath the giant dish mounted on the roof. A progress bar was almost done filling.

The seconds ticked by, the only sounds that of the wind. Snow had begun to fall since they'd gone inside, and right now it was thin, nothing but tiny flakes, but Greg suspected it was going to get worse. He frowned, staring out the window. The sun was almost completely gone now. It was going to be pitch black out there soon…

The computer chimed softly.

"Okay...and...yes!" Izzy said, reading rapidly over the report the system check had sent back. "It works! It's all fine. I mean, some of this stuff needs maintenance. Okay, a _lot_ of it needs basic maintenance, but it works."

"Perfect. Good work. Um...why don't you go downstairs and start shutting it down. Everything but the comms gear, the galley, the infirmary, and two bedrooms," he suggested.

"Two? Don't we need...oh," Larsen murmured. "You two are, um-okay, yeah. What do you want me to do?"

"Get down to the infirmary, fire up the equipment. I want to scan all three of us. Make sure we're up to snuff," he replied.

"Got it." He turned and hurried out of the room.

"Sorry," Greg said after a few seconds, "I wasn't thinking."

"It's no big deal," Izzy replied. "Though...we're gonna have to be maybe a little more subtle. Eventually we're gonna run into the chain of command again. Fraternization is one of those things...mostly they don't give a crap, but every now and then you run into some asshole or they want to make an example of you."

He sighed heavily. "Yeah. That's true."

"Don't take too long," she said, standing up.

"Trust me, I won't. I'm falling asleep right now," he replied, then shook his head and blinked several times, trying to wake himself up. He took her seat as Izzy left the room and fired up the communications gear. He spent a moment hunting for Becker's signal, and when he finally found it, he got a response almost immediately.

" _I hear you Corporal Walker. Over,"_ a new voice said.

"Is Sergeant Becker available? I need to make a report to him. Over," Greg replied, and stifled a yawn.

" _Yes. Here he is now. Over."_ A pause, then Becker's familiar voice came onto the air.

" _Greg! You just cleaned up half of our goddamned radio problems by turning that relay on. How are you? Over."_

"Dead on my feet, Sergeant, but otherwise intact. I've got good news and bad news. Good news is I found your scout team. Bad news is they're all KIA but one of them. Sole survivor is a kid named PFC Larsen. He's intact and with us. Over."

" _Damn...well, at least one of them made it out. Have you encountered anyone else? Over."_

"Negative. And from the looks of things, this relay was abandoned. Over."

" _Hmm...good chance some of them were called as backup...better chance whoever was left opted to go in search of loved ones. There's a small colony not far from my position, and a lot of the Marines in the area are locals. All right, are you secure? Over."_

"Confirmed. We're secure. But I need to report that the local wildlife, at least the drubs, can be infected by the Flood. We had to kill one. _Big_ sucker. Over."

" _Holy crap...great. Thanks, I'll make a note of that. Some of us have been wondering about that. I hate drubs. Anyway, it looks like you're going to be stuck there for a good twelve hours, maybe longer. There's a big storm blowing in and from what little intel we can get from our weather stations and satellites, it's going to be nasty. Whiteout conditions. Over."_

"Understood, Sergeant. What do you want us to do once the storm clears? Over."

He sighed. _"How long can that relay stay online? Over."_

"We're not sure. Determining that now. But at least two days, provided no one screws with it. Over."

" _Well, that's good at least. If you can't raise me by the time the storm's up, continue along your intended path. We could still really use your help. But that very well could change. Now that we've got more stable comms, we're already getting a lot of calls. So basically be prepared for anything. Over,"_ he replied.

Greg sighed softly. "Pretty much my life already. Over."

Becker laughed grimly. _"Tell me about it. Okay, bunk down for the night and rest up. You've definitely earned it. Be in touch later. Out."_

Greg sat back from the workstation and found his eyes drifting back up, to the snow. It was blowing harder now. Probably thirty below out there. How cold did it get on Wintermute? Not something he wanted to find out. The snow was hypnotic…

He got to his feet abruptly. If he kept sitting here, he was going to fall asleep. Downstairs he went, navigating the tower until he finally found his way to the infirmary, where Larsen had taken at least a little bit of initiative and was running a scan on himself, laying on one of the examination tables. "How do you feel?" Greg asked as he walked over to another table and fired it up.

"Like crap," he muttered. "But I'll probably live. You?"

"Dead on my feet," he replied, laying down.

"Same. I thought I was dead. Thanks, uh, for saving my ass. I can't remember if I told you that," he said quietly.

"You're welcome," Greg replied. He felt the table vibrate gently as it began to scan his body. As it always was, the sensation was relaxing, and began to lull him to sleep. How many times had he been here? Getting examined in an infirmary? Nodding off because he was dead tired? Too many to count. Right as he was beginning to drift off, the door opened up, jarring him from the shores of sleep, and Izzy walked in.

"How are we looking?" she asked as she approached him.

"I'm good, apparently. Just a few scrapes and bruises," Larsen murmured.

"Mine's not done yet," Greg said. The examination table chimed gently and the vibration stopped. "Okay, well, nevermind." He sat up as Izzy studied the screen. "You're good, though your body is under a hell of a lot of stress. That ice plunge really gave you hell," she muttered.

"Ice plunge?" Larsen asked.

"He went through the ice, into the water below, back on Polaris. I managed to get him out and warm before too long," Izzy replied. "Get up, my turn."

Greg nodded and relinquished the table, letting her lay down. Once she was in place, he put it through another cycle. He checked over his own results and saw only a few other things, but they were minor. Scrapes, scratches, stuff that was going to require painful cleaning and bandaging. Well, that was best done in a shower.

"So what's the plan? What did Becket have to say?" Izzy asked.

"There's a storm that's going to pound our position for awhile, not sure how long. Whiteout conditions. We're to stay put. Which, at this point, I don't mind doing."

"Same," Larsen muttered.

"Okay, sweet then. I shut down everything but here, the galley, and two living quarters. And the comms equipment, obviously. So it's going to be freezing in the hallways. And I can shut down this room and the galley when we go to bed. Based on that information, this thing should stay active for at least four days. After that, it's out of my hands."

"Hopefully Becker will have some people here by then. He said he'd probably have other jobs for us by the time the storm clears," he replied.

"I'm going to go get started on dinner," Larsen said and headed out of the room.

For a moment, Greg looked down at Izzy, and she looked back up at him, neither speaking, the only sound the wind outside and the hum of the table as it scanned her.

"How are you holding up?" she asked finally.

"You worried?" he replied.

"No."

"I am," he admitted.

She frowned. "What? What about?"

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "The Flood," he said, and fell silent again, attempting to gather his thoughts. "I think I'm going to freak out."

"What?" she asked, and began to sit up. He put a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back down.

"Don't move around, you'll make it have to reset and we'll waste power," he said.

She sighed and laid still. "What do you mean?"

"It occurs to me that I've been handling the Flood too well. I mean, I think some of it is that I knew they existed, but I think I'm in shock. I mean, I've gotten really good at operating while in shock. We all have, to some degree, it's part of our job. How we survive. And I think I thought that I had it under control. But the fact that I completely lost track of time today, that I let myself, I let us, go on for that long...normally that would be a calculated decision. But today it wasn't. I just forgot. I _kept_ forgetting. I'm concerned that it's symptomatic of a greater stress that I'm not fully perceiving. And I think I might freak out at some point in the near future. And I don't know how that's going to manifest. So I guess I'm just...warning you, you know?"

Izzy was silent for a few seconds. "Yeah, okay," she replied. "I'll watch out for you." She laughed suddenly. "Shit, I might freak out, too."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I guess that's always a possibility." The examination table chimed. He studied the results. "Looks like you're the healthiest of us all. Just a few cuts I'll need to, uh, tend to, when we shower."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's not the only thing you'll be tending to," she replied as she got up. She grabbed him by the front of his uniform and gave him a kiss, then fully stood and stretched. "Come on, I'm starving."

She headed out of the infirmary, and he followed after her.

* * *

Perhaps the greatest boost to Greg's morale since hitting snow on this miserable planet, (besides Izzy), was what they managed to find in the kitchen of that derelict comms tower. It wasn't exactly what he'd call amazing, but there was ground beef, and taco seasoning, and shells, and shredded cheese, and taco sauce.

It was just one of those 'right time, right place' kind of moments, and it was solidified when he managed to find an unopened twelve-pack of Mountain Dew Black Hole, which was, so far, his all-time favorite. He stuck it by the oven as he prepared the ground beef. It gave him a nice, and much needed, burst of energy.

Outside, the storm raged, the winds shrieked.

He glanced out the windows every now and then, seeing only darkness and blowing snow. "I don't suppose there's a way to seal those up?"

"Actually, there probably is," Larsen replied. He was sitting at one of the tables in the eating area, looking miserably tired. He glanced over at Izzy, who was walking slowly along the perimeter of the room, staring out into the snowstorm. "Check for a button around the windowsill. Most of these places have shutters."

She began searching, and a moment later, there was a click and a hum, and a metal shutter began to slide down into place. She quickly did the same for the other windows in the room. "I'm going to do this for all the windows on the first floor."

"All right, check in if you see any movement out there," Greg replied.

"Got it."

She headed briskly out of the room. For a moment, there was only the sound of frying meat and the now muffled storm.

"So, uh, how long have you two known each other?" Larsen asked.

"Three months," Greg replied.

"How long have you been, uh..." Greg glanced at him. "Sorry," he muttered.

"A few days now," he said, turning his gaze back to the meat. "Since we came to the planet. It's still...evolving." He cleared his throat. "I don't think she'd want me talking about it. She's very...private."

"That's fair. Sorry. I'm just...trying to stay awake."

"It's okay. Meat's almost ready. We can eat and then sleep after another perimeter check," Greg replied.

"Are we pulling shifts?" Izzy asked as she walked back into the room. Greg felt a beat of fear pulse through him. Had she heard any of that? He might have divulged a little more information than she was comfortable with. He supposed mainly he was worried about her getting pissed at him, given what he'd seen of her temper so far. But a glance at her told him she was relaxed. Well, as relaxed as could be expected under the circumstances.

"No," he replied. "I think this place is secure enough and, to be totally honest, we could all use the sleep."

"Yeah," she agreed after a moment's hesitation.

"That smells so amazing," Larsen muttered after a moment. "I am _starving._ "

"Same," Izzy said.

"It's ready," Greg replied.

They spent the next few minutes preparing the food. The Mountain Dews had, mercifully, thawed by then, and still retained enough chill to be pleasant. Once they'd made their tacos, they sat down at a table together and dug in. Greg tried not to eat too fast, but it was a genuine effort. He tried to slow himself down with conversation.

"So, Larsen, how'd you end up on Wintermute?" he asked.

Larsen swallowed and sighed, then took a drink from his can. "Born here. In a little colony a ways away called Steadfast."

"Nice name," Izzy murmured.

"Eh, they all have names like that on Wintermute. It's a harsh place. Frozen most of the time. Winter lasts like nine months out of the year. You get colonies like Endurance, Fortitude, Tenacity, Perseverance. Mostly mining colonies. Lots of good metals on Wintermute. That was my job for four years right out of high school, working in a damned refinery with my dad. I hated that, and never really stopped hating it, but it taught me to work my ass off at least. I signed up with the local militia and did that for a year, and then I decided to do the real thing, enlisted with the Corps. Naturally they made me a scout." He sighed softly.

"You wanted off this rock?" Izzy asked.

"I mean...yeah. Kind of. By the time I signed up, I'd pretty much gotten used to this dump. But yeah, I'd still like to leave. See the galaxy...while there's still some to see," he muttered, trailing off. He took another bite of his remaining taco.

Greg sighed. "There's fighting on Earth now."

He looked up sharply. "There is? I'd heard a few rumors last week, but..." He gave a sharp shake of his head and heaved a sigh. "Fight of the millennium happening, and I'm stuck here."

"I _deeply_ feel your pain," Greg replied, and Izzy grunted in agreement.

"Yeah, I guess pretty much everyone does. Covenant bastards. And still, I haven't seen any. No, instead we get these goddamned space zombies."

"Yep," Izzy muttered.

They fell silent again, each drifting into their own nebulous, unhappy thoughts, and remained that way until their meal was gone. For a few moments, the three of them simply sat there around the table, beneath the pale lights of the galley.

Finally, Larsen spoke up. "You said we need to do a perimeter check before going to bed?" he asked.

"Yeah," Greg replied, rousing himself from his near-stupor state. The lethargy had found him again. "We should do that. Sooner we get to sleep the better."

"I'll go shut off the infirmary and the galley to save energy," Izzy said.

"All right. We'll double-check the perimeter," Greg replied, getting to his feet.

They got to work.

* * *

An hour later, Greg and Izzy lay naked in their latest bed, warm and content beneath three blankets, teetering at the edge of sleep. They'd secured the facility, and he and Izzy had showered together, and patched each other up, and then had their fun in a stranger's bed. And now the time had come, at last, to sleep.

But something was bugging Greg.

"Izzy..." he hesitated.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"Are we...okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I just...get concerned, I guess. I'm normally not-" he paused, then let out a small, somewhat frustrated chuckle, "well, it sounds cliched and like something an insecure person would say, but I'm normally not overtly insecure in my relationships. But..." He stumbled again, unsure of how to put it without being insulting.

Izzy rolled over so that she was facing him. They'd engaged the shutter in the bedroom and as a result it was pitch black. He couldn't see her at all. It had made their encounter...interesting, to say the least. "Do I make you insecure, Greg?" she asked, sounding surprised.

"I mean...kinda," he admitted.

"Why?" she asked, and then, before he could answer, she kept going. "Oh. Shit. Of course I do." She sighed. "I'm antagonistic and probably frustrating in how I've been handling this."

"That's a surprisingly self-aware observation," he murmured.

"I _hate_ people who lack self-awareness. They piss me off really bad. So I invested real time and effort into cultivating more self-awareness. I'm not great at it, but I've learned a few things." She fell silent, apparently not sure what to say next.

"Izzy, listen, this isn't a psychological bid to guilt you into doing...I don't know, anything. I'm not trying to make you feel bad about how you're handling the relationship. I told you that I'm happy moving at your pace, and I still am."

"Greg-"

"Okay, okay, maybe 'happy' isn't the right word. But I _will_ move at your pace. I'm not asking for anything beyond, I guess, a bit of reassurance every now and then."

"I know," she replied, and he felt her hand beneath the blanket, moving across his chest. It was a deeply comforting thing to do. "Greg, I think I know you pretty well by now. We wouldn't be this far if I thought that you were petty or manipulative. You aren't. And I'm sorry for being a bitch sometimes," she said.

"I didn't say-"

"I know you didn't. _I'm_ saying it. Sometimes I'm a bitch. And I'm sorry. I'm kind of in a state of constant warfare with myself, trying to keep my anger in check, trying to watch myself, and these past few days have been _so_ trying. So I get it. We're fine. I'm happy with where we're at and where we're going. Honestly, I just need time to process the fact that I'm...with you in this capacity."

"I understand."

"Thank you. And, for future reference, don't be afraid to check in if it's bugging you."

"Okay...you'll let me know if I'm doing it too often and it's becoming a pain in the ass?"

"Have you _met_ me?"

"Good point." He kissed her. "Goodnight, Izzy."

"Goodnight, Greg."

She rolled over and pressed herself up against him, and he put his arms around her and held her to him. At first, he listened to the winds shrieking madly outside, and Izzy's breathing. But before long, all he could hear was her gentle, rhythmic breathing.

And, finally, he slept.


	23. Chapter 23: Sidetracked

Greg came awake to a world of almost perfect silence.

Faintly, he heard the hum of power. More closely, he heard the soft, rhythmic sound of quiet respiration, and it was a wonderfully soothing sound. He'd spent a lot of nights alone before coming to Wintermute, and he had forgotten the great comfort that came from sharing a bed with a lover. But that silence, he realized, meant that the storm had passed. Or, at the very least, there was a lull. But he heard no winds at all. It was pitch black in the bedroom, given that they'd activated the window seal last night and there was nothing, not even a clock on the bedside table, on in the room. That was fine with Greg, though, at least for a little while.

He laid there, listening to Izzy breathe softly beside him, feeling their shared warmth that had accumulated beneath the blankets all night, and the occasional tiny shift she made in her sleep. He really liked what he had going with her. He could already see some problems, though. Namely anger. In the beginning of the relationship, it was much rarer to argue, because you weren't as comfortable with the person yet.

It was the people you were most comfortable with you yelled the loudest at, he'd noticed.

But he trusted Izzy. Based on everything he'd learned about her over the past several months, he thought that she would put in reasonable effort to keep her anger under control and not lash out at him. At least, not too often.

In the darkness, he frowned. No, right now, he was more worried about himself. These were stressful times, far more stressful than what he was used to, although the breaks he'd been getting were helping keep him out of the red. But he could tell that he was still trying to figure out how to cope with not just the stress of the situation, but the Flood. They were...horrifying. He knew that he'd had nightmares at some point last night, and that they'd involved the Flood, and that they had been extremely intense, and he rarely had nightmares anymore. He'd freaked out before in his life, and ultimately, when that moment came, it felt like a coin-flip.

Either he'd be able to handle himself, or he wouldn't.

And if he couldn't handle it, then it was a coin-flip whether or not someone else would be there to cover his ass while he got his shit together.

Or maybe he was wrong, maybe he wouldn't freak out, maybe he had a better handle on this situation than he thought he did.

But he didn't think that was the case.

Beside him, Izzy took in a deep breath and came awake.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Hey," she murmured sleepily. It was weird not being able to see anything at all. "We good?"

"Yeah, far as I know. I've only been awake for a few minutes. Storm's over, I think."

"Good."

He began to get up. "We should get up, there's work to do."

He felt her move, and her hand found his wrist in the darkness, gripping it tightly. "Uh-uh. I think we can spare ten minutes."

"Yeah," Greg said, twisting around to face her, "I think we can."

* * *

Half an hour later, after some fun, a shower, and a check of the perimeter, Izzy was bringing the galley back online, Larsen was waking up, and Greg was in the radio room atop the tower again. He looked out the windows lining the walls there and saw that yes, indeed, the storm had passed. Everything was covered in a fresh layer of snow and the skies were clear. The winds seemed to have disappeared, too, which was particularly nice. It could be cold out, bitterly cold even, but that wind gave the chill sharp teeth.

Greg managed to raise Becker without too much trouble this time around. _"I'm here, Walker. I ended up telling them to just forward it to my damned helmet radio since I can't seem to go anywhere without it recently. What's your sit-rep? Over."_

"We're good. Looks like the storm has passed, the comms tower is still secure and functional, we're getting ready to have breakfast. Over."

" _Good. Uh..."_ he hesitated, sounding reluctant now. Greg steeled himself. _"I'm afraid I've got an irritating assignment for you. Over."_

"There's another kind? Over."

He laughed loudly. _"Yeah, you got me there. One of the transmissions we picked up last night came from some rich asshole who's locked up in a panic room in his hunting cabin. Apparently he was there when the Flood showed up and he's been hiding out ever since. He's called for help. Thing is, we're inclined to help him because he has a bargaining chip. He's the CEO of a shipping and handling business, and apparently has been sitting on a huge shipment of food and medical supplies after whoever it was for never came through with the payment. He says it's in the region, and he'll give us the location if we get him safely to a military location. Over."_

Greg sighed heavily. "And you want us to go grab him, right? Over."

" _That's affirmative, Walker. You're the closest ones. It'll be a bit of a detour, but we could really, really use those supplies. Here's what I'll need you to do: go grab him, make him take you to the warehouse in question, and see if it's legit. If he's lying, leave him out there. We're running out of room as it is. I'm sending you the coordinates of his cabin. He's paranoid, so he's insisted on a challenge and countersign. He'll challenge with 'phoenix', countersign is 'icepick'. Understood? Over."_

"Understood. We'll get it done. Any further assignments? Over."

" _Not yet. But there will be. Any further questions? Over."_

"Negative, over."

" _Good luck then. Out."_

Greg sighed again and sat back in the chair. Great. Just great. He checked the intel Becker had sent over. Yeah, it was a few miles off the road they were traversing, but not difficult to get to. Or it shouldn't be. He got up and headed downstairs. By the time he got into the galley, he found it almost tolerably warm, and getting better, because the oven was on and Larsen was frying up more bacon and eggs, while Izzy had found and was operating a coffeemaker.

"You look pissed, what's up?" Izzy asked.

"We're gonna have to babysit a goddamned CEO," Greg replied.

Larsen joined her in staring at him. "What?" he managed.

"Just got off the radio with Becker. There's a CEO holed up a little ways from here. He's got the location of a huge shipment of food and meds, and he's bargaining it for safe extraction."

"Just great," Izzy muttered angrily.

"Gee, I was really hoping to have some rich prick for company," Larsen said, turning back to the food.

"Yeah, it sucks, but Becker says we need the food and meds badly."

"He'd better not be full of it," Izzy growled.

"If he is, we get to leave him out there. But Izzy, _try_ not to break his nose or anything. Try to be, uh...diplomatic."

She snorted as she finished setting the coffeemaker up and got it going. "Not really in my wheelhouse, but I'll give it a shot. For you."

"Appreciated," he replied.

They spent the next half an hour preparing and then consuming breakfast. Greg had to admit, the coffee helped. For the most part they all kept silent. He noticed that Larsen was looking a lot better. His color had come back and his eyes didn't have that dark, bloodshot look anymore. Which was good, because they were all going to need to be sharp for the day ahead. Wintermute was a battlefield now, and it seemed like death lurked around every corner, in every shadow, eager to consume them. They'd be lucky to get out of this one alive, let alone intact.

After breakfast, Greg had Larsen check the perimeter and the lockdown one more time, and had Izzy shut down everything save for the comms equipment. While they did that, he went outside and made sure nothing was waiting out there for them. A quick sweep around the building revealed no Flood, no tracks, nothing alive in the immediate vicinity. With that out of the way, Greg reinstalled the component he'd taken out of the Warthog's engine last night and started the vehicle up. He also got as much of the snow out of it as he could, lamenting that there hadn't been a place to put the thing, and that it lacked a proper roof.

Ten minutes later, they were back on the road.

* * *

"How long will the comms array stay active?" Greg asked as they made their way onward.

" _Four days and three hours,"_ Izzy replied, her voice coming in through the radio over the buzz of the engine. _"Provided no one screws with it and nothing goes wrong."_

"Good. That _should_ give Becker time enough to get there and install a team to maintain it." Up ahead, he saw the turn off and felt a wave of frustration hit him. But he slowed down and turned right as soon as they arrived there.

" _Can't believe we gotta do this,"_ Larsen muttered from the back.

"Yeah, but that's our job," Greg replied. He made himself focus, made sure that he began looking at the situation as objectively as he could. Getting pissed about it was only going to make it harder, and it was already hard enough.

The road he turned onto was at least decently maintained. He wondered if this guy would be alone. From what he understood, CEO types tended not to go anywhere alone if they could help it. It would mean they'd have to do things on their own, for themselves. Greg suppressed a sigh and refocused again. Maybe the guy wasn't an irritating, self-obsessed jerk. Maybe he was a good guy, who didn't treat people like crap. CEOs and executives like that _must_ exist, somewhere. As they finished driving down the lengthy road and saw what was not a cabin but a three-story structure bigger than most people's houses, Greg supposed he was going to find out.

The Flood had definitely been here, he could already tell, and he thought he saw movement through some of the broken windows. He didn't see any vehicles, and the garage was open and empty. Maybe one of the guy's butlers or cooks had run off with the vehicle. Greg pulled up to the garage and parked the vehicle, then killed the engine. He waited a few seconds, hand on his shotgun, but nothing came out at them.

"All right, stay out on watch Larsen. Izzy and I will head inside and secure the area."

"Understood," Larsen replied, standing up and drawing his battle rifle.

Greg and Izzy got out of the vehicle and grabbed their shotguns, then headed into the open garage. "I'll take point," Greg whispered.

"Right behind you," Izzy replied softly.

He walked inside, shotgun at ready. Had to be careful, there could be civilians still inside that weren't locked up in a panic room. It was unlikely, but not impossible. At least it was light in the house. Greg made his way through a kitchen, finding a dead body that looked like it had been beaten to a raw pulp, and into a dining room. The main dining table and all the chairs had been smashed, reduced to so much kindling. As he made for the exit, leading to a hallway, something growled. He waited, hearing a few heavy footsteps.

When they ceased, he carefully crept forward.

As he crossed the room, he stepped on something glass and it cracked and broke loudly underfoot. Something shrieked wildly and the footsteps resumed with a vengeance, coming for him. They were quickly joined by several others.

"Crap," he growled, aiming for the door. Izzy took up position beside him and they both waited. They didn't have to wait for long. The first Combat Form appeared and was promptly blasted off its feet. Another one appeared and was hit by two shotgun shells at once, picking it up off its feet and slamming it into the wall behind it. Greg waited for the perfect moment as a third one rounded the corner and blew its chest out in a spray of gore. At least they were bottle-necked nicely. Four more showed up and were put down without too much trouble. While he waited, he fed more shells into his shotgun.

Nothing showed up.

Greg quickly checked over his ammo supply and sighed softly.

"What?" Izzy asked.

"Only got enough for one more full load after this, then I'm back to my pistol," he muttered.

"Yeah, I'm not doing much better. We need to restock, and soon," she replied.

He nodded, then took point again, stepping over the Flood corpses and trying to ignore the godawful reek of them. The hallway opened up ahead into what looked like a large living room. He made quick hand motions to Izzy to check out the only other door he saw. It seemed to lead into a bedroom. She nodded tightly and moved into it. While she cleared it, he moved into the living room. The main window was broken, and a huge, flat-screen TV had been destroyed by a bullet. The place was smashed up, but there were no more Flood.

"Clear," Izzy said as she rejoined him.

"Let's head up," Greg replied, and they made for the stairs.

The second story held a bathroom, a study, and another bedroom, all clear and mostly untouched. The third and final floor held the master bedroom and bathroom, and the door to the panic room. It looked like a vault door and stood at the back of a huge, walk-in closet. It was shut securely. Greg walked up to a little comm panel mounted beside it and pushed the call button. A few seconds went by, and then the response came.

" _Phoenix."_

Greg hit the button again. "Icepick."

" _Is it secure out there?"_

"Yes. Now let's go," Greg replied.

A pause, then, _"All right."_

There was the sound of something unlocking, and then the door opened up. A middle-aged man with a pinched face and a sour expression was revealed. He wore white camouflage that seemed about what someone hunting in the area would wear.

"Where's the rest of you?" he asked uncertainly.

"Outside," Greg replied. It wasn't technically a lie. "What's your name?"

"They didn't tell you?" he asked, exasperated. Greg waited, staring at him. He sighed. "Chad Wellington."

"Do you have any other guns around?" Greg asked. The man had a revolver in a holster on his hip and was carrying a hunting rifle.

"This is it," he replied.

Greg sighed. "How much ammo do you have on you?"

"Why?" Again, Greg waited. "Thirty bullets for the pistol, six magazines for the rifle."

"All right. Izzy, check the panic room for anything useful, then get back down to the Warthog." He looked at Chad. "Follow me." Then he turned and began walking away. He could already tell they weren't going to get along, and normally he was at least okay at being diplomatic with people who bugged him, but right now he didn't have the time or the patience to put up with some self-important idiot. He could still be wrong, but everything about the man gave away that he was your typical rich person. Everything from the way he carried himself to the tone of his voice to the disdainful, dismissive way he looked at the two of them.

Greg led him back down through the lodge, and listened to the man fret and mutter over the damaged state of it. When they got back outside, Chad stopped on the porch. "Is this it?! One man and one vehicle?!" he asked, incredulous.

"Yes. Get in," Greg replied. He activated his radio. "How's it looking, Izzy? Over."

" _Okay, I guess. Found some meds and rations packed away. Got them into a case and I'm coming down now. Over."_

"Things look fine here, out."

"Do you really expect to protect me with just three of you? From what I've heard over the radio, there's supposed to be a lot of...of them. How far away is this place? How many people are there?" Chad asked, hanging around reluctantly on the porch.

"It's about ten miles up the road, and I don't know. Get in the vehicle, you're going to tell us where this store of yours is. That was the deal," Greg replied.

"I don't-"

Greg whirled to face him so fast that he took a step back. "Get. In. The vehicle. Now."

The man stared at Greg, and he could see several phrases were coming to him, several things he wanted to say, but they all stopped just short of his lips. Finally, he simply turned and marched off towards the vehicle. Greg watched him go, waiting for Izzy.

Chad tried to get into the front passenger's seat.

"In the back!" Greg called.

He saw a large puff escape the man's mouth in the cold air, a long, frustrated sigh no doubt. Larsen watched him silently. After a few seconds, Chad began to walk around to the back. Izzy appeared a moment later, holding a black case. "We good?" she asked.

"We're good. Let's get this over with," Greg replied. They hurried over to the vehicle and hopped in. Greg brought up a map of the area on the screen mounted in the dash and looked at Chad. "Where is it?" he asked.

The man sighed softly and came forward, leaning into the front part of the vehicle and studying the map. "Five miles north, up the road, and then ten miles west," he replied, and pointed.

Greg studied the map for a moment. Should be easy. He activated his radio and called out to Becker. After a moment, he got a response.

" _I'm here but you're gonna have to make it fast. Over,"_ Becker replied, sounding harried.

"I've got Wellington, alive and intact. We're about to drive over and authenticate the store of supplies. Over."

" _Good. Get there pronto, and then get here as fast as you can. We need backup and-"_ A slew of automatic fire that sounded dangerously close cut him off. He cursed several times. _"Gotta go! Hurry up! Out!"_

The line went dead.

"Damn," Greg muttered, turning on the vehicle, throwing it into drive, and taking off.

"Wait, we're not going straight to the military base? You can't-" Chad began.

"Dude, sit down and shut the hell up!" Izzy snapped, twisting around in her seat. "Or I'm going to _help you_ sit down and shut up!"

Greg didn't hear a response from their latest addition. Good.

He drove on.


	24. Chapter 24: Adamant

Up ahead, Greg spied the looming shape of the warehouse, perched at the end of the lengthy road they'd been driving down. So far, Chad hadn't said anything else. Or, if he had, it had been lost to the winds. Either way, Greg was fine with that. The less he had to hear from the man the better. Mainly, he just wanted to confirm whether or not this was a desperate bid for survival and the man was lying, or if the place was ripped open and robbed already. It seemed unlikely, given the amount of supplies that was supposed to be in here, but stranger things had happened. As he pulled up, eyeing the exterior, he saw that it at least looked intact.

Greg parked right next to the front doors, killed the engine, and hopped out. "Larsen, stay here and keep an eye out."

"Got it."

Izzy joined him as he approached the front entrance, which was a large set of metal doors closed and sealed firmly against the elements. He tried them, but they wouldn't give. He looked at a little weather-proof pad built into the wall next to the door, then looked back at the Warthog. "What's the code?" he asked.

"I don't know," Chad replied. Greg turned fully around and stared at him. He sighed, exasperated. "I'm the goddamned CEO! I've never even _been_ out to this warehouse."

Greg stared at him a moment longer, then turned to Izzy. "Can you do it?" he asked.

"Gimme a minute," she replied, and crouched in front of the pad. Greg suppressed the urge to sigh in irritation and instead looked out over the snowy wastelands surrounding the isolated warehouse. It really was out in the middle of nowhere. He wanted to report to Becker, but stepped on that urge, because he knew he just wanted to get an update from the man, and he didn't feel like bothering him until he had definitive answers for him. Honestly, he really wanted to deliver the news that they had indeed found a huge store of food and meds.

Several minutes ticked by in the cold as Izzy dug into the electronic guts of the control panel, and just about the time he was going to suggest just blasting their way in, because he was seriously losing patience, the door slid open.

"Got it," she said, sounding satisfied as she rose smoothly to her feet.

Greg brought his shotgun up and hit the barrel-mounted flashlight. He pointed it into the opening, at the large, open space beyond. He and Izzy stepped in and cleared the immediate area. To the right was a stairwell that led to a second story.

"Check it," he whispered, motioning towards the stairs.

She nodded tightly and hurried off, ascending quickly. There were, at least, a ton of crates around. Greg began to move among the stacks, double-checking that the warehouse was clear. He didn't smell anything, didn't hear anything, but you never knew. Five minutes passed as he checked out the shadows and alcoves between the stacks of silver crates, and he found nothing. No sign or trace of Flood or human or anything else. As he returned to his point of origin, he spied Izzy coming to stand at the edge of a catwalk overhead.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Nothing. We're clear," she replied.

"Perfect. Let's get some of these open."

She hurried back down to join him, and the pair of them spent the next several minutes prying open a random sampling of the crates from several different stacks. As soon as he popped the first open, relief hit him hard. He saw packs and packs of freeze-dried food. He checked another and found an entire crate of antibiotics. Another of antiviral medications. He and Izzy checked a few more, just to be safe, but he soon felt confident they'd hit the jackpot. He quickly activated his radio and made the call to Becker.

This time, it took close to two minutes for anyone to respond.

The voice sounded professional, but very distracted. _"This is Outpost Adamant, I hear you, Corporal. Over."_

"I need to speak with Sergeant Becker ASAP, over," Greg replied.

" _Um...all right. Hold. Over."_

Another lengthy pause, this one longer than the first. He shared a nervous glance with Izzy. Finally, Becker came onto the line. _"Tell me you've got good news for me, Walker. Over."_ He sounded worse than before.

"Yes. We've hit the jackpot. There has to be several tons of food and medicine stored here. Enough for hundreds of people, thousands maybe. Over."

" _Oh thank God,"_ he groaned. _"Okay, get back here pronto. Over."_

"On our way. What's the situation there? Over."

" _Secure, but that's changing by the hour, it seems. Damned Flood got in through a side entrance last time you called. We killed them, but there's a lot of the bastards around. Get here as fast as you can, I need you and Serrano for a special op. Over."_

"Understood. We can fit some supplies in the back of our Warthog. What would be most beneficial right now? Over."

" _Antibiotics and bandages. That's what we need the most. Painkillers after that. Morphine, ideally. Grab what you can and then double-time it over here. Out."_

Greg and Izzy got to work, sorting through the crates. They managed to find two full crates of each kind of supplies needed and hastily loaded them into the back of the Warthog with Larsen and Chad. Once they were secured, Izzy went and locked the warehouse back down, and then they hopped back into the Warthog and took off.

* * *

As they drew closer to Outpost Adamant, (had that ever been brought up before? He honestly couldn't remember if he'd heard the actual name or not), Greg heard gunfire. A shitload of it. It filled him with hope, and fear. Obviously they were still there, still fighting. But so were the Flood. He gunned it.

"What's going on?!" Chad cried.

"Sit down, shut up, and don't move!" Greg roared back at him. "We're going in! Get ready!"

Three Combat Forms ran onto the road in front of them as they approached the outpost, which he remembered was set up in an old refueling station. He slammed into them, speeding up, and sent them flying through the air, splattering the windshield with green gore. Izzy let out a shout that sounded like a grim, primal kind of joy, and he felt his heartbeat picking up the pace. He got on the radio as they made their final approach.

"Friendlies approaching in a Warthog from the north! I repeat, four friendlies approaching from the south in a Snow Warthog!" he shouted.

He didn't get a response, but hopefully no one would shoot them on accident. The refueling station was set a little ways back from the road, its right side, the side they were approaching from, beset by a dense treeline. As they cleared the trees, Greg finally got his first look at Adamant. He was very happy to see that it wasn't just a gas station but a proper refueling station for, he guessed, flight transports. Out front were a pair of landing pads that were littered with corpses, most of them flood. Beyond that a scaffold-like metallic structure that was serving as an excellent watchtower for a dozen Marines, and beyond that he saw the main structure.

A mesh fence surrounded the whole thing, but it was broken open in several places, including the front gate. So Greg took advantage of that and drove in through the bashed-open gate. Behind him, Larsen opened fire, as did Izzy with her pistol. He was tempted to leave the Warthog there, hop out with his shotgun and get to work. He saw dozens of Flood attacking the base, most of them streaming out of the treeline to the right and leaping over the fence or coming in through the opening. But he had Wellington to think of.

Even though they'd already gotten what they wanted out of him, Greg didn't plan to throw him to the wolves. He'd come through, and Greg wasn't one to leave his debts unpaid. So he kept on driving, going around the landing pads and running down another six Combat Forms. "Larsen! Get ready to hop out, climb up there, and assist!" he shouted.

"Ready!" Larsen replied.

Greg hit the brakes as they got next to the scaffolding and as soon as Larsen was out, he hit the gas once more and drove on. He spied the main entrance to the structure. A trio of Combat Forms had gathered there and were trying to get in. His sights set on them, he hit the brakes again a few meters short, and he and Izzy hopped out, shotguns blazing. They put the Flood down in a few seconds, blasting their gory remains across the front doors.

"Watch him!" Greg snapped, and jogged over. As Izzy hurried back to the Warthog, he banged on the doors. "Friendlies! Open up!" he roared.

There was a pause, then the door opened and he was greeted by a shotgun barrel. It lowered immediately and a pale, wide-eyed Marine came into view.

"Shit, sorry," he said. "They've been trying to get in, who are you?"

"Corporal Walker. Izzy, get him over here!" Greg yelled. "We've got a civilian that needs to get inside to protection."

"All right, hurry up." He paused, listening to the overlapping waves of gunfire. "Jesus, it's bad out there, isn't it?"

"From what I saw, yeah." He turned and made room as Izzy and Wellington hustled over. Chad pushed right past all three of them into the base.

"Down the hall, last door on the right!" the Marine called after him. Someone was rushing down the hallway towards them, another Marine.

"They're trying to get in the back!" she warned.

The first Marine grimaced, then looked at Greg and Izzy. "I can't leave this door unguarded. Can you-"

"We're on it. Secure this door," Greg replied.

"Thanks." The Marine shut and sealed it.

"Let's do this," Greg growled, raising his shotgun and hurrying along the front of the building. They moved past windows that had been shuttered against the cold and the Flood, and as they approached the next corner, he could hear growling and banging. Behind him, the omnipresent rattle of battle and assault rifles and pistols as the outpost's defenders fought for all their lives. Greg made it to the corner of the structure first and pressed his back to the wall, taking a precious few seconds to get his shit together and make sure his gun was ready for action, then he peered around the corner. A half-dozen Combat Forms were gathered at the back entrance.

"Come and get it!" he screamed as he stepped around the corner, leveled the shotgun, and fired at the nearest one. It had its back to him, so, consequently, it got a hole blown through it and splattered the others with green gore. They all immediately turned to face this new threat and began rushing towards them. Greg sidestepped as he blasted another one off its feet, giving Izzy room to take his previous position and do the same thing. Between the two of them, they managed to put down all six of the horrific, misshapen monsters.

Greg scoped the situation out in the rear of the base as he fed more shells into his shotgun. They seemed to be clear, and out front, the gunfire sounded like it was dying down. "Head back the way we came, secure that side, I'll go down the other side and we'll meet back at the Warthog," Greg said as he finished reloading.

"Check," Izzy replied, and jogged off.

Greg headed down the length of the old metal structure, past shuttered windows and weather-tortured metal plates. He wondered briefly how old the facility was, how many winters it had seen, what conditions it had stood up to. Then he reached the corner and shook off the distracting thoughts. Had to finish securing this outpost. Around the corner was another stretch of land, an alleyway of about ten feet in breadth between the fence surrounding the property and the side of the main structure. There were a few Flood corpses near the opposite end and nothing else. The snow was undisturbed. Greg moved down it, looking through the mesh fence. A dark line of trees sat a little ways away. They seemed quiet for now, but they could hold anything.

He winced at the sight of the fence. It was so flimsy. This was such a terrible place for a refuge against the Flood, but clearly Becker and his Marines were doing everything they could, and honestly, based off of what he saw and the opposition he knew the Flood presented, it was a miracle that they were still as in control as they were.

But how long could that hold up?

He reached the other end of the alleyway, kicking the Flood corpses just to be sure they were really corpses, and came back around. He saw Izzy making her way to the Warthog, and the Marines atop the scaffolding were picking off stragglers at this point.

"Now what?" Izzy asked.

"Let's go see if they need help," Greg replied, though mainly because he just felt like he needed to be doing _something_. He was still pretty amped up on adrenaline. They made their way over to the scaffolding and came to stand near the ladder where they'd dropped Larsen off. He looked out over the landing pads he'd driven by barely ten minutes ago. There wasn't anything left standing, thankfully. Just a field of corpses littering the pads and the open space around them. There were probably a good fifty or sixty dead Flood, with a few dead Marines mixed in there, unfortunately. Greg let out his breath in a long sigh when he realized the fight was really over.

"Oh shit, is that Walker?" a familiar voice asked from overhead.

Greg glanced up. "Yes, Sergeant," he replied, seeing a man looking down at him from atop the scaffolding. "Corporal Greg Walker and Lance Corporal Isabella Serrano reporting in."

"About damn time you got here," Becker said. "Don't move."

He climbed down the ladder and beckoned them a little ways away from it to make room for the others coming down. He studied them, and they studied him. Becker looked about what Greg thought he'd look like: tired, pale, miserable. Older than he'd figured, though, but that didn't really mean anything. Greg had met thirty year olds that looked as old as Becker did now. He might have been thirty, or he might have been pushing into his fifties. After a moment, Greg decided he was probably somewhere in his early forties, something about his eyes and the way he carried himself. Clearly he'd been through a lot.

Finally, he thrust out his hand and shook with him and Izzy in turns. "Where's that CEO and where's the last member of my scouting party?" he asked.

"CEO's inside. Larsen's up there." Greg glanced up. "Here he comes now."

Becker turned and looked as Larsen descended the ladder. He stepped over when he noticed them looking at him. "Sergeant," he said.

"It's good to see you, Larsen. I'm sorry about your squad."

Larsen sighed unhappily. "Me too."

A look came over his face then, and Greg could instantly read it. It was the look he surely got whenever he'd adopt that tone of voice over the radio, the one that said: _I'm about to ask you to do something really damned annoying, frustrating, and/or dangerous._ Greg steeled himself, but it wasn't as hard as he thought it might be to prepare.

"What do you need from us, Sergeant?" he asked, standing up a little straighter.

"Come inside. We need to talk in my office," he replied after considering it for a moment. "Get those bodies outta here! Two men on guard duty at all times up there!" he called back up. A string of affirmative replies came back. Becker led them back to the main entrance and gave the all clear as he headed inside. He quickly checked in on a few others, getting quick answers to his curt questions, and Greg saw several civilians packed into some of the rooms they passed. They all looked the same: terrified, exhausted, miserable.

He almost felt guilty, seeing them. All the civilians he'd seen so far had been dead, (except for Chad), so they'd been sort of faraway, their time had already come and gone. But now they were here, and he had to face them, even if just in his own mind. He could fight, because he knew how. He'd dedicated years of his life to fighting and learning how to survive and even if, technically speaking, practically anyone could fight if forced into it...there just wasn't a comparison there. Fighting in a war, effectively, at least, wasn't just learning to shoot a gun accurately. It was so much more than that, developing a dozen different crucial skills over the course of weeks and months and, if you were lucky enough, years. And the Flood…

Even the most veteran among his ranks balked at fighting them at least a little.

Becker finally got them back to a cramped office after ensuring that the building remained secure and he'd sent a few of the Marines out there to help get rid of the bodies. Once they were inside, he shut the door and then sat down heavily behind his desk, which was littered with datapads and empty cups of coffee and the remains of a few meals.

"So I'll level with you because time is a factor," he said, staring up at them with a grim expression. "We're on borrowed time here, if something doesn't change. The attacks are getting worse and more frequent. I've had to stop sending out Marines to render assistance because we're understaffed as it is. You seem pretty damned good at getting the job done, so...I'm afraid I need your help. Everyone here needs your help."

"We're ready to serve, Sergeant," Greg replied.

"That's exactly what I needed to hear." For a moment, he looked stymied, and Greg had the idea that there were several things he needed done, and he wasn't sure where to start. Then he reached out and grabbed one of the datapads. Firing it up, he looked it over. "Okay, first thing's first, the last group I sent out about four hours ago. They were a small squad of just three, and I sent them with our last Warthog to recover a shipment of weapons and medical supplies from a Pelican that went down during the anomalous weather event."

He handed them the datapad, and Greg accepted it, studying the map on the screen quickly. "Find them and find the Pelican. They _should_ be at the same place. Last report from them was an hour ago, that they had almost reached the Pelican."

"It took them three hours to get to the Pelican?" Greg asked.

"No, no. They had a series of places to check out along the way. It shouldn't take you more than half an hour to get there in a Warthog. If at all possible, recover them and the supplies, and then radio in and let me know. I'd like to have one of you come back in that carrier hog, and then take the second Warthog, provided it's still intact, and do another job for me. There's a second comms relay out here and it's offline. We _need_ to be able to contact a higher command. I was sent here on orders from the Regional UNSC HQ, about two hundred miles north of here. It's been days since we last talked, but I'm positive it must be due to the lousy radio equipment and the anomalous weather in the region. You do that, then you can get a break."

"Understood," Greg said.

"I appreciate it. Stop by the armory and grab whatever you need. Keep in touch."

"Got it. We'll be back as soon as we can, Sergeant," Greg replied.

"Good luck."

They left his office and prepared to go back out into the cold once again.


	25. Chapter 25: Emergency Assist

As he drove away from Adamant and in the frozen wilderness, Greg found that he was actually in something approaching a good mood. Despite everything that had happened, despite the soul-sucking cold and the terrifying Flood and all the other crap he'd had to face recently, he was actually beginning to feel a little bit better about this whole nightmare. It was probably the fact that he'd completed a major goal and was now in the presence of something resembling a command structure. Though he was still decently independent.

It was odd. He respected the chain of command, he followed orders and generally didn't have a problem with it, and yet...there was a part of him that actually really enjoyed the unbridled freedom he'd been experiencing the past several days. On Polaris Island, he'd been cut off from not just the chain of command but the outside world, with an extremely vague goal in mind, and it had been up to him, (and Izzy), to stay alive and figure a way out of the situation. Sure, it had been miserable and difficult and gut-wrenching at times, and obviously the death of their fellow Marines wasn't worth it and still weighed heavily on him, but there was an exhilaration in figuring things out for yourself, in making and executing your own decisions.

Would that all change now?

Probably. And he could live with that. But a part of him missed the freedom.

Greg was jarred back to reality as he hit a particularly heavy bump in the terrain and the Warthog jumped about a foot off the ground. They all grunted as it hit and kept going, the tires chewing up dirt and snow as it grabbed for traction and shot them off towards their destination. Huge forests of dead, snow-capped trees stood to either side of them, and to the right, the landscape eventually rose up into a cliff sheer that seemed to continue for quite a ways. In the distance, the land dropped away. That's where they were heading.

" _I can't believe we actually made it,"_ Izzy said, her voice close and almost intimate over the radio in his helmet.

"You doubted my abilities?" Greg replied.

She snorted. _"Give me a break. You're good, Greg. Really good. But all the crap we went through...honestly, it's a miracle we've made it this far."_

"Yeah, I'll give you that. Couldn't have done it without you."

" _Of course you could've. You're...you."_

"What's that supposed to mean?"

" _I don't know if I've ever met a more skilled, focused, independent man, Greg."_

Greg hesitated. She almost sounded like she was accusing him of something. "Is that...a problem?" he asked finally.

She sighed. _"No. Not a problem. Just..."_ She fell silent for a few moments. Greg waited, focusing on the snow-stricken plain ahead of them, watchful for more Flood. _"It's difficult watching someone succeed with apparent ease at something you struggle so desperately with."_

"Oh." He paused. "I'm sorry."

" _Don't be. It's not your fault. You're good at something. Mostly, I appreciate that. Don't...you know, don't let someone's bad mood bring you down."_

"I mean I get it. And it's not just someone, it's you."

" _Well, sometimes I'm petty, and a bitch."_

"There are worse things."

She sighed. _"Stop being so reasonable."_

"Really?"

" _No."_ She began to say something else, but her attention shifted as they finally crested the natural rise in the land and got a better look at the area. The cliff sheer to the right continued on for quite a ways, but the forest to the left eventually opened up into a vast plain. He spied two things. To their ten o'clock, maybe two miles off, the wrecked remains of the downed Pelican. Farther off, past another huge forest, the vague shape of a communications tower and dish. Their two goals were now within sight.

He thought he saw flashes of gunfire at the Pelican.

" _Punch it,"_ Izzy said.

He punched it and they sped off down the hill.

* * *

"Get ready! I think they're vargs!" Greg snapped as they finally got within range of the downed Pelican. At a glance, he could see the Warthog, which looked like it had taken some damage, and someone was on top of the Pelican, shooting at a dozen low, dark figures rapidly approaching on them. Not an ideal situation.

They did indeed look like vargs, only…

Different somehow.

Greg skidded to a halt a dozen meters away and hopped out, shotgun at ready. Behind him, standing up in the back now, Larsen opened fire. As he did, half of the pack immediately broke off and began sprinting towards them. Greg felt like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over him. They were vargs, all right, but not normal vargs. The question of whether or not they'd see Flood-infested vargs had come back to haunt them sooner than he'd thought it might. They were hideous. The sleek, lean look was gone. This thing had a bulge in its chest that nearly doubled its width, and was supported by four legs thick with muscle. Its gray fur had fallen away in random, uneven patches revealing tough, leathery flesh beneath. Its head, still sporting the four crimson eyes, was lower, hanging at an awkward angle. Fleshy tentacles sprouted from its back and the back of its neck, and a cluster of them near its front seemed to serve it as a new head.

"Holy crap," he whispered, tracking the nearest one with his shotgun.

It seemed to have grown to half again its normal size.

As it drew closer, throwing up runs of snowy dirt, he squeezed the trigger. The shotgun spoke and a shell was issued forth from its barrel. It hit its intended mark, the cluster of tentacles growing from where its neck met its chest, dead on, and had the desired effect. The thing's chest seemed to burst open in a spray of dark, coagulated gore, and it went limp like a puppet with its strings cut, skidding to a halt and flopping a few times. Well, that was good to know, at least: they were as 'easy' to kill as the other infected things.

Were they still venomous?

He didn't want to find out.

Beside him, Izzy opened fire, putting down another one in much the same manner he had, and behind and above them both, Larsen earned his keep. His three-round bursts were accurate and extremely useful. As Greg kept firing, advancing on the Warthog and the survivor, he saw more infected vargs coming out of a nearby treeline, making for them. This wasn't going to be easy, but he hadn't made it this far assuming shit was going to be easy. Greg turned to face this new threat, and emptied the shotgun putting down three more of them. They were moving too fast for him to reload, so he began backpedaling as he drew his M6G and opened up. The powerful rounds tore into the creatures as they advanced on him.

Another one dropped to the snow, twitching violently. Another took a shot in its floppy, deformed skull and kept coming, then dropped as a second bullet found its way into its chest cavity and it joined its brethren.

Then his pistol ran dry and three more of the things were still coming for him.

"Need some help!" Greg yelled as he hastily reloaded.

Another infected varg came for him, issuing a growl so deep that it didn't seem possible, and right as it prepared to leap, a three-round burst sounded from somewhere behind him. A trio of bullets punched into its chest and sprayed the snow beside it with green gore. The creature immediately lost muscle rigidity and went slack. Greg finished slapping the M6G magazine home and opened up, punching big, ugly holes into another two beastly infested vargs and dropping them. Just when he thought they were beginning to get things under control, he heard a shout of surprise and fear coming from overhead.

Twisting around, he looked up atop the wrecked Pelican and spied the lone survivor. She was being advanced on by two vargs, one to either side of her, and she was fumbling for a reload with the battle rifle she was holding. Cursing, Greg aimed and popped off the rest of his bullets and put down one of the vargs. It caused the second one to hesitate long enough for her to aim and fire. Then she spun around and kept firing as, presumably, more varg attacked from the back. At that moment, as he began to reload again, he heard Izzy shriek his name.

He started to spin around, becoming aware of heavy paws beating the snow in their rapid approach, and then a great weight smashed into him from the back. He grunted and shouted as he went sprawling, the pistol thrown from his hand. In a flash of movement, he flipped over and ripped his combat knife out. The varg was coming for him, tentacles thrashing wildly. One of them reached for him and he sliced cleanly through it, severing it. The varg leaped at him, letting out a horrible, keening wail as it did, and he threw up one arm.

Pure luck meant that it bashed its deformed face on his arm guard, and that gave him the opportunity to drive the blade into its bulging chest. Once, twice, three times. Over and over again, screaming, he stabbed the bastard as it struggled to murder him. It rapidly weakened as green gore sprayed out of it with each stab, and then whatever served it as life left its deformed body and it went boneless atop him. Grunting with effort, Greg shoved it aside and surged to his feet, knife raised as he took a quick three-sixty survey of the area.

The vargs were dead. Everything had become still and silent.

"I don't know who you are, but thank you," he heard from overhead, and he jerked and turned, looking up. The woman they'd saved, clad in similar white camo the other local forces were wearing, looked down at him from atop the tail-end of the wrecked Pelican, some thirty or so feet up. She was missing her helmet and he saw a very pale face, fierce brown eyes, and short, pale blonde hair. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Greg managed, realizing that he was, in fact, fine. He heard running footsteps and turned again, spying Izzy on rapid approach. She slowed as they locked eyes and she seemed to confirm for herself that he wasn't hurt. At least not seriously.

"That was close," she said as she came over to him. She handed him a dirt-and-snow covered pistol. "You dropped this."

"Thanks," he murmured, taking it and beginning to wipe it off. He looked back up at the survivor. "You with the team sent to investigate this downed Pelican?" he called up.

"I'm all that's left," she replied grimly. "Let me survey the area, and if we're clear, I'll join you. We can catch up without shouting."

"Understood," he said.

Two minutes later, he had cleaned his pistol, reloaded and holstered it, and finished reloading his shotgun, and the survivor had joined them. He sized her up as she approached, having walked down the slant of the ruined Pelican until hopping off the cockpit, which had nosedived into the ground, half-burying itself. She looked like how he expected a survivor to look in this godforsaken, frozen hellscape: competent, fit, calm. She had the sort of stoic detachment he'd become very familiar with in the field.

She'd found her helmet apparently, but hadn't put it on. He saw why when she came up to him: the visor was shattered.

"Lance Corporal Emma Ellis at your service," she replied, her tone clipped, though grateful. "Thanks for the save. I'd be dead if you hadn't showed up when you did," she added flatly.

"I'm just sorry we couldn't get here sooner," Greg replied. "Corporal Greg Walker and Lance Corporal Izzy Serrano. Back there is PFC Larsen. Sergeant Becker sent us."

"Oh, good. So Adamant is still there?" she replied, looking genuinely relieved.

"Yes, though not for lack of trying on the Flood's part. When we arrived, we had to help break quite the siege. But I'm afraid we don't have time for conversation. Is there anything wrong with your Warthog besides the popped tire?" he asked, seeing now that the vehicle was leaning awkwardly to one side. It had clearly taken some damage, but nothing very obvious leaped out at him.

"I don't know," she admitted.

"All right. Izzy, check it over for problems. Larsen! Change that tire!" he called, waving the man closer. "Fast!"

"You got it, Corporal!" Larsen called back, hopping down from the back of the Carrier Warthog and jogging over to them.

"On it," Izzy said, moving quickly over to the damaged Warthog. It was the same make and model as the snow hog he and Izzy had driven in here on.

He returned his attention to Ellis. "Did you get a chance to assess if there was any supplies in the Pelican?" he asked.

"Some, yeah. There's some crates packed in there, but I didn't get a chance to crack any open," she replied.

"All right. Let's see what we've got our hands on first and foremost."

They spent the next few minutes climbing into the back of the Pelican and tracking down a prybar. As soon as they had one, Greg broke open one of the crates and looked inside. He felt a spike in his hope: military grade meds.

"Thank God," Ellis whispered.

"Yep. Okay. Let's go see where we're at with the Warthog before we make our next move," he suggested, and they headed back outside. As they approached, Larsen was just finishing attaching the replacement tire.

Izzy was in the driver's seat now, staring into a dashboard-mounted screen.

"What's the situation?" he asked.

"Good," she replied after a few seconds. "Just ran a diagnostic. It needs service, but otherwise its got power and functionality. It should be more than enough to get us to where we need to go."

"Excellent. Okay, let's get those supplies loaded up into the Carrier! Larsen, drive it over here, back it up to the Pelican!"

"Yes, Corporal!" he replied, and jogged off.

Greg couldn't help but smile at least a little. When things ran like a well-oiled machine, it just felt _good_. Made you feel like you knew what you were doing, and there was nothing that felt quite the same. Larsen drove the Carrier over and they spent ten minutes first loading up the crates they'd found, then performing a more thorough search of any and all compartments in the Pelican. They then spent another ten minutes collecting up the corpses in and around the wrecked vehicle, both from the crew manning the Pelican and Ellis's own team, stripping them of any useful supplies and adding the ammo to their own inventories, then laying the half-dozen corpses out in the back of the ship and covering them with some tarp they'd found.

"We'll have to come back for the bodies...at some point," Greg murmured.

"Yeah, there really hasn't been time for casualty assessments, let alone corpse recovery," Ellis muttered with a heavy sigh.

"Now what?" Larsen asked.

Greg looked at him. "Drive the Carrier back to Adamant and deliver the supplies."

He got into the driver's seat and started the vehicle up. "Understood. Do you want me to come back to you after?"

"No, they could use your aim and your gun more than us right now, and, ideally, we'll be finished before you could get back to us. Just update Becker and then do whatever he needs you to do," Greg replied.

"Got it." He paused. "Good luck."

"And you," Greg replied.

Larsen began driving away, heading back the way they had come, the heavy tires of the Carrier Warthog kicking up sprays of snow as it went.

"What are we doing?" Ellis asked.

"We need to get Izzy to that comms tower to bring it back online, then we're going home to Adamant," Greg answered.

She nodded tightly. "I'm ready."

"Excellent," he replied.

They hastily mounted up in the new Warthog, Greg in the driver's seat, Izzy riding shotgun, and Ellis hopping up into the mounted LAAG in the back, and then they were off.

* * *

They managed to reach the communications outpost without any trouble.

As they approached it, Greg saw that it was almost a carbon copy of the one he, Izzy, and Larsen had holed up in not too long ago. God, had that been today they'd left it? Greg marveled as he slowed to a halt in the front parking lot of the outpost. Yes, it was just this morning the three of them had left that quiet building and made it to Adamant. That just seemed impossible. He shook his head and made himself focus.

"Secure the perimeter," he said after killing the engine.

Izzy and Ellis replied affirmatively and they all got out. The next several minutes were spent stalking around the exterior of the building. It had been built into a huge clearing in the forest, only a single, sparse road, little more than a gravel path, leading away, back to the main road that he and Izzy had traversed all the way from Polaris. It was obvious that the place had been attacked. There were a few broken windows and a lonely, frozen corpse lay by the front door. There was nothing lurking outside, but the back entrance was open.

Greg took point, activating the flashlight on his shotgun after making sure the weapon was locked and loaded. He made his way into the initial area beyond the opening, Izzy and Ellis at his back. He heard something growl, somewhere deeper in.

"Damn," he whispered. "You two go up, clear the second and third stories, I'll clear the ground floor," he said softly.

They both complied and headed for the stairs.

Greg began working his way slowly through the building, that old sour fear beginning to seep in. Funny how all it took was a dark corridor and a hint of hostiles around to sap your good mood in an instant. But death could be lurking around any of these corners. This could actually be it for him. He had skills, and years of experience, excellent reflexes and instinct, and some pretty great military hardware, but all it took was one second of bad luck to cut your life short. And dead was dead. There was no coming back from that.

He slipped into the mess hall, and found that it basically was a copy of the other comms relay. With more blood and corpses, though. Clearly the base personnel had been slaughtered, and the reek of cold blood and shredded guts was still on the air.

Something shifted deeper inside the mess area, and he heard another growl, much more clearly this time. Greg considered how to handle this, and quickly decided that he didn't really want to go to the Combat Form that was lurking around.

So why not make it come to him?

"Hey, dumbshit, come here!" he called, and then whistled.

The result was immediate and exactly what he wanted. The Flood creature growled sharply and rushed out from the kitchen area into the main room. It saw him and began sprinting towards him, knocking over tables and chairs in the process. He squeezed the trigger as soon as it was in range and blew a huge hole out of its chest, killing it instantly. He waited, listening, but didn't hear anything else. His radio crackled to life.

" _You okay down there?"_ Izzy asked.

"Fine. You?" he replied as he continued his search.

" _So far nothing...wait..."_ She paused, and then both over the line and overhead he heard a shotgun blast, a shriek, then another shotgun blast. _"Got two of them in the dorms area. Looks clear otherwise. We'll keep going."_

"Same."

He pressed on, searching the kitchen and the storage room, finding the kitchen a hideous mess but otherwise vacant. He moved on, sweeping and clearing the area room by room until he had returned to his point of origin. With the interior clear, he began the process of closing the back door. It wasn't easy, given it had been damaged, but by the time Izzy reported that the place was clear, he had managed to at least get it shut firmly.

"What's the communications situation look like?" Greg asked as he began heading up the stairs.

" _Irritating, but otherwise fixable,"_ she replied.

"Okay, get to it. I'm coming up."

He joined them a moment later and found Izzy on the floor, sitting before the exposed guts of a service panel. Ellis stood by one of the windows, outlined by the gray skies. Greg frowned, spying storm clouds blowing in. Another storm was on the way, though, if he had to guess, he didn't think it would be as bad as the one from last night. Hopefully, anyway.

"We'll need power before I can really assess the damage, but I figured I'd get the most obvious stuff out of the way while the power is off, since I need it off to safely do repairs anyway," Izzy said from where she worked.

"What kind of timeline do you think we're looking at?" Greg asked.

She sighed. "Really hard to tell, within an hour probably, though."

"Okay. Let me know if you need anything done."

"Oh, I will."

He joined Ellis by the window, looking out over the vast frozen forest. He could see a lot of trees, a lot of snow, and the crash site.

"Where were you when it happened?" he asked after a moment.

"Pelican," she replied. "Was being transferred to another base. Got hit by the surge or wave or whatever the hell it was and went down hard in a valley. Just me and three others made it, and only because I'm a _good_ medic. We took refuge at someone's vacation home and tried to raise anyone on the radio for two days. Finally realized help wasn't coming. We hiked out of the valley, picked up a few locals who'd been out ice-fishing when it happened, and that's when we ran into the Flood for the first time." She fell silent, her expression almost unchanged, but when she started speaking again, her voice had gotten flatter.

"We fought so hard. Lost two Marines and a civilian before we finally made it to a temporary outpost where local forces were holed up. Helped them as best we could, and finally ran into a runner from Adamant in a Warthog who was gathering up anyone they could find. Made the pilgrimage there and I've been fighting to keep it going ever since." She paused. "What about you? That isn't standard issue gear for Wintermute."

"Izzy and I were part of a pair of teams sent down from a ship that was supposed to investigate what was happening. We were coming down when it happened, crash-landed badly on an island about sixty miles south of here. We were the only survivors, from the crash and the whole island. We managed to get in touch with Becker, grab a Warthog, and drove here. Picked up Larsen on the way," Greg explained.

"Damn, so...what happened to your ship? Are we getting any help? Because I haven't heard jack from anyone on that subject," Ellis asked.

Greg sighed and shook his head. "I'm afraid I have literally no idea."

"That sucks."

"Yep." Greg moved a little away and activated his radio. "This is Corporal Walker to Adamant, does anyone read? Over."

" _This is Adamant, Corporal. Please hold for Sergeant Becker. Over,"_ a voice replied succinctly. Well, apparently they'd finally updated everyone on who he was and who he'd want to talk to. That was nice.

Becker came onto the line a moment later. _"Walker! Larsen just arrived with the shipment of supplies. What's happening on your end?"_

"We've made it to the comms relay. There was a battle here and the gear is damaged, but initial assessment doesn't seem too bad. Serrano thinks she can get it back online within an hour," Greg replied.

" _Oh thank God. Okay, report any changes and keep at it. Out."_

Greg moved back over to one of the windows and stared out it until Izzy finished the initial work. From there, the trio went downstairs to the generator and found it had sustained minimal damage. After just five minutes, Izzy had it functional with a fresh power cell installed. From that point, while Izzy continued assessing the damage and making repairs, he and Ellis went around and activated all the window barriers, shuttering them and securing the area with much more reliability. Half an hour later, he found himself back upstairs.

"Done," Izzy said suddenly, breaking the silence that had settled over them. As she said it, several workstations suddenly powered to life, screens flickering and then stabilizing.

"So that's it? It's working?" Greg asked.

"Should be. Hold on," she replied, and moved over to the primary workstation. Another few minutes of investigation yielded positive results. "Yes, it's working. It needs more work, but this thing will run for, I'd say, at least a few days without help."

"Let's get the hell out of here," Greg muttered as he activated his radio. A moment later, he had Becker on the line as they made their way back downstairs. "We did it, Sergeant. The comms tower is secure and functional. No survivors, unfortunately. Unless you have something else for us to do, Serrano, Ellis, and myself are returning to Adamant. Over."

" _No, nothing else. Get back here. You all have definitely earned a rest. And we've confirmed that we have more stable and significant radio power. Excellent work. Out."_

Greg sighed softly, a feeling of great relief sliding over him as he and the others got back outside, made sure the perimeter was secure and the building was locked up one more time, then getting into the Warthog and beginning the drive home.


	26. Chapter 26: Turning Point

Despite his attempt to maintain mental control and clarity, Greg found himself pushing the Warthog faster than he should have as they finally closed in on Adamant. He kept expecting something to have gone horrifically wrong. Even though he heard no gunfire, saw no pall of smoke billowing into the air, and heard no distress calls over the airwaves, (he'd left his radio open and listened to the chatter as Adamant reached out with their newfound comms abilities, it was shockingly calming to hear that clipped radio chatter), he still was paranoid. But finally they cleared the last of the trees, and he saw Adamant, still there, still standing, still intact.

It actually seemed to be bustling with activity.

Greg announced his presence over the radio and then parked where they instructed him to. He, Izzy, and Ellis dismounted and turned the vehicle over to the local forces.

"I need to go check in with a few people. Thanks again for the save," she said, and then she hurried off towards the main building. Greg and Izzy followed in her wake, though more slowly. It was obvious that more people had shown up while they'd been gone, mostly Marines from the look of it. The relief that he felt as they entered the main structure was almost as good as finally laying down in a bed after a horribly long day or getting into a warm room after spending hours in the cold. As he and Izzy moved through the building, however, looking into rooms as they hunted down Becker, his good cheer quickly bled away.

Everywhere he looked, he saw something that reminded him of the staggering amount of devastation, suffering, and loss of life that had hit Wintermute. Injured civilians and Marines seemed to be in every room, sleeping or recovering or waiting to be tended to. But they _were_ being tended to, he saw, and that only made the fact that he and Izzy and Larsen and Ellis had managed to recover that medical supplies much more satisfying. He only wished they could have done more, and he fully intended to do more.

They found Becker in his office, asleep in his chair. As they came in, he came awake with a start and knocked over a few empty cans of Monster Energy drinks. "Dammit! I wasn't sleeping," he muttered as he sat up and rubbed his baggy, bloodshot eyes.

"We're back, Sergeant," Greg replied diplomatically. Izzy snorted.

"I can see that." He picked up another can, this one of some kind of chilled coffee, shook it, grunted, then drained what was left. "Thank you," he managed after crushing the can and dropping it into a nearby wastebasket that was almost full of cans. "You did very good work out there. Those medical supplies are literally saving lives right now." He broke off and yawned. "Goddamn, I haven't slept in..." He looked at one of the datapads, then at his terminal, blinked a few times, shook his head and sighed. "I don't know. But you two have earned a break."

"Respectfully, Sergeant, you've earned a break. Why don't you get some sleep and let us handle things for a little bit?" Greg asked.

Becker opened his mouth, then hesitated and closed it. Finally, he sighed. "Yeah, I need to sleep or I'm going to pass out. I've dozed off like five times since you left and...dammit, all right." He sorted through the datapads for a moment. "We're actually to the point where we're fairly autonomous." He selected one of the datapads and handed it to Greg, who accepted it and began studying it. "There's a list of shit I was hoping to get done today. Wake me up if any decisions need to be made or if there's an attack, or if you hear from Command HQ. We're still trying to get in touch with them. But otherwise...yeah, I'm gonna go pass out in the closet there."

"The closet?" Greg asked, looking up as he stood and began making for the only other door in the room.

"Yes. It's just big enough to shove a cot in, which I did. Goodnight, afternoon, whatever."

"We'll take care of things, Sergeant. Get some sleep."

"Thanks."

He disappeared into the closet, though he left the door open. Well, at this point he could probably sleep through a marching band.

Greg studied the datapad. Most of it was basic stuff, the kind of work that just needed an actual, physical person doing something for a little while.

He looked at Izzy. "You ready?"

"Yep," she replied.

"Let's get to work."

They left the office, closing the door behind them.

* * *

Despite everything that could have gone wrong, and a _lot_ of disaster scenarios ran through Greg's mind as they worked throughout the remainder of the day and into the night, things went pretty well. He thought he'd have to sidestep uncomfortable questions of why exactly were a pair of Corporals suddenly doling out orders, but either most people were too tired to question it, or, and this seemed increasingly more likely, stories about their survival of Polaris Island and their subsequent trip had spread among the local population.

Either way, it was nice. They told people to do stuff, and they did that stuff.

He and Izzy oversaw repairs to the perimeter fence, ensured maintenance was performed on the few vehicles they had left, at one point Izzy broke off to help perform repairs, or at least evaluations, on a pile of broken or malfunctioning weapons that no one had really had time to deal with, while he went to update the guard rotation schedule. After that, they'd run into Ellis again, and had helped her perform a sweep of injuries, mainly to change bandages, and then a reorganization of the two makeshift infirmaries they had.

They ran through a dozen other little tasks that ranged from really irritating to almost fun.

By the time midnight was on approach, they'd gone to check on the Sergeant, and found him in the process of waking up. He'd apparently had a nightmare bad enough to kick him squarely out of sleep, especially once he realized how much time had passed, and although he'd freaked out a bit at that, once they assured him that nothing had gone wrong and, in fact, several things had gone right, he'd calmed down. Though he'd insisted they catch some sleep. At that point, they were both exhausted, so there hadn't been much argument.

After a quick meal and a lengthy shower, made a bit lengthier after he'd gone to shave, and Izzy hadn't wanted him to, and they'd finally settled on him buzzing his facial hair, not his hair though. Not that it'd make much different. Despite how much he lamented having short hair in the frozen environment, too much facial hair bugged the crap out of him. Sandpaper stubble he could more than live with though, since he thought he looked stupid clean-shaven. Which meant he thought he looked stupid most of the time, given his career.

Apparently Izzy agreed with him, although she was at least nice enough not to say he looked stupid, just that she liked him with some face fuzz, as she called it.

Finally, after all that, they found themselves curled up in a stranger's bed together in almost total darkness. The only light came from a clock mounted on the wall and some from the window. All around them, they could faintly hear the sounds of activity as Marines and civilians moved about, doing whatever was needed to keep the outpost running. Greg thought it would bug him, but the sounds were actually deeply comforting.

"So what happens now?" Izzy asked, breaking the relative quiet that had fallen over them.

"I don't know...I guess we chill out here and help Becker run this place until...I don't know, he reestablishes contact with Command HQ, I guess. Then I'm sure we'll get reassigned. Or maybe we'll just get stuck here, helping run this place," he replied.

"Huh."

"How do you feel about that?"

"I don't know. Like...part of me would be cool with just hanging out in a place like this, because I feel pretty confident that I can _deal_ with this. And yet, there's another part of me that feels like we need to keep moving, keep going, keep fighting, keep...I don't know, making progress. Almost like I hunger for it. I think that journey started a fire or something."

He laughed. "I know what you mean, actually. Well...whatever we do, I just hope we can stay together."

She was silent for a few seconds. "I hadn't considered that. I hope so, too."

He thought there was more she wanted to say. There was more _he_ wanted to say, at least. But the silence played out, and very soon the dark, warm, comfortable room became too much for him, and he found himself falling into sleep.

* * *

 _Bang! Bang! Bang!_

"Walker! Serrano!"

Greg gasped and jerked awake and felt Izzy do the exact same beside him. A shot of adrenaline honed his focus in a picosecond.

"Sergeant?!" he called, sitting up.

"Relax, we're not under attack," Becker replied, his voice muffled but audible through the door. "Need you in my office. Ten minutes."

"Yes, Sergeant," he replied.

"Damn," Izzy muttered, laying back down. "Bastard."

He chuckled, trying to get his heart to stop racing. "I was having a really good dream," he muttered, then yawned.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. You were in it."

She shifted closer to him. "Let's make that dream come true then."

Ten minutes later, they were walking into Becker's office, freshly showered and in new uniforms to boot, as they'd managed to find some in the bedroom. They found Larsen and Ellis in there as well. Becker sat behind his desk. He looked...relieved.

"What's happening, Sergeant?" Greg asked.

"Thanks to your efforts, we finally reestablished contact with HQ last night. I spent damn near two hours straight updating them on everything that's happened, and naturally you two came up. After the debriefing, a lot of new orders came down the line. One of them was that Command wants you two specifically, as well as my best medic, to grab a Warthog and drive to the UNSC Regional Headquarters. It's about a hundred miles away. Larsen caught wind of this and asked if you'd permit him to remain with you."

"You want to go with us?" Greg asked, looking at the scout they'd found panicking in the middle of nowhere not all that long ago.

"Yeah," he replied.

"Any particular reason?" Izzy asked.

"I...I'm not sure," he admitted. "I guess, it just feels like you two are onto something big, and I want in. I want to be a part of it."

"Onto something big?" Greg repeated.

"Yeah. I mean, Command wants you for _something,_ obviously, something probably important. I don't know, I just know I don't really want to stick around here, and I don't want to go to Polaris, which, from what I understand, is what's next for most around here."

"Yeah. A big assault convoy from Command finally got here about two hours ago. They said they've basically paved the way from here all the way to the HQ, since that road out there you traveled along keeps on going all the way there. You should have a relatively smooth ride as a result. They've set up a series of outposts to act as waypoints along the road. To be honest, I have no idea what they want you for, but Larsen's probably right. Something important. The guy I talked to after I got done with the debriefing, Master Sergeant Gibson, was awfully specific that he wanted the two of you, he almost sounded excited. It seemed to be that he wanted you because of what you've done so far, your actions on Polaris and the road to here, but that could just be me reading too much into it. Either way, your Carrier Warthog has been repaired, stocked, and powered up. It's ready to take the four of you, if you do want Larsen to go with you," Becker explained.

He glanced at Izzy. Apparently, they were getting their wish to keep going, but this was weird. Ultimately, though, Becker was right: they had their orders.

"Larsen, you can go with us. Just don't complain when it turns out to be like latrine duty or something," Greg replied, which made him laugh.

"Deal," he said, grinning.

"Sergeant, it's been a pleasure," he said, stepping up to the desk.

"It honestly has," he said, and then he took the time to shake all their hands. "All of you have provided serious help to this place. Adamant almost certainly would have fallen without you all. Thank you, truly, for your efforts. And whatever it is you're doing out there, I wish you luck. I'm sure you'll kick ass at it."

"I sure hope so," Greg said. He looked around at the others, and they looked back at him. They seemed to be waiting for him. "Well...let's do this."

* * *

After another fifteen minutes, all four of them were mounting up in the Carrier Warthog. They'd all caught a quick breakfast and had taken the time to arm themselves appropriately, grabbing some ammo from the armory, given they had no idea what they might run into on the way out there. Someone, Greg saw as he looked into the back, had been thoughtful enough to give them a small supply of rations, ammo, and medical equipment. He and Izzy took the driver's and passenger's seats, while Larsen and Ellis settled in back.

All four of them were geared up and ready to go.

Greg started up the vehicle and hit the road, going southbound beneath clear blue skies.

It was time to see where this insane journey took them next.


	27. Chapter 27: A Shift In Objective

**PART THREE  
** –Necrology–

* * *

Greg was having a very difficult time believing his eyes.

As he stared up at the mountain path that would ultimately take them up past several switchbacks to a pair of huge titanium walls, he had genuinely thought that something would go wrong on their journey to the Regional Headquarters of the UNSC. Not just one thing, but a dozen somethings. He thought the Warthog would break down, that a huge blizzard would roll in, immobilizing them, that they would be attacked by the Flood, or the wildlife, or a horrific combination of both. Or one of several other potential setbacks, hazards, or emergencies would assail them. And while the trip was far from perfect, here they were.

The local forces had indeed finally organized and mobilized, he had seen. There were several checkpoints along the main road, built into abandoned gas stations, small settlements, and other buildings that served as bastions against the cold and the Flood. And they had passed dozens of vehicles, _moving_ vehicles, not derelict ones, on the way. Four times they'd stopped to assist someone, once when a vehicle had flipped due to ice, twice to help combat the Flood, and once to help with a search and rescue.

But nothing had really gone seriously wrong. No one was injured, they still had a good stock of supplies, the Carrier Warthog was still in good condition. Honestly, Greg was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. He half expected to roll up to the base and find it on fire and overrun by hostiles. But he'd already confirmed his approach over the radio, and they told him someone would meet him at the front gate, and that he and his squad were expected. Whoever it was sounded competent and sure of themselves, at least.

All in all, the trip had taken about four hours. It had given him some time to reflect. Or, at least, that's what he liked to think it was. Really, he was swishing his insecurities around in his head like blood in his mouth if he had nowhere to spit it out. Was he crazy for seeking a relationship with Izzy? How sustainable was this? Were they right for each other? Obviously in some ways, but maybe not so much in others. How was _she_ handling this? She was clearly reluctant to even call this a relationship, and he still respected that, but…

Things would, in some ways, be easier when they were out of this situation. They would have more time to actually confront and sort out their feelings. Or maybe that would actually be a lot harder. Maybe _now_ was the easy part, because there was no time to think about things. This was part of the reason he was so bad at relationships. He was prone to overthinking things. In a way, this was why he preferred survival situations and combat and objectives more. His mind could make sense of them in a way it could make sense of nothing else.

He could actually _do_ this stuff. Even if it was life-threatening and insane.

Izzy shifted in the passenger's seat beside him. He thought she'd fallen asleep there near the end, and he didn't blame her. The past hour and a half had just been driving. But now they were here. He drove them up the switchbacks, passing by a few more Warthogs on the way up, and finally came to a stop before the big gates that served as entryway into the Headquarters. There were heavily fortified guard posts on top of the huge titanium walls and to either side of the gates, with full-on LAAG turrets attached with huge stores of ammo and lots of guards.

He imagined they were taking no chances.

"Identify yourself," a Marine said as he walked up to the side of the Warthog after Greg had rolled to a stop.

"Corporal Greg Walker," Greg said, and the others provided their name and rank in turn. The man consulted a datapad, then told them to wait and turned away. He was decked out in white snow camo, his face hidden behind a dark visor. He talked quietly into a radio, then turned back towards them. "Okay, go inside, find a parking spot and park, then head inside the main base. Someone will meet you by the front entrance."

"Understood," Greg replied, and drove in.

The Regional HQ was as impressive as he'd hoped it would be. Beyond those huge, fifty foot walls that were built into the mountainside itself was a massive opens space that held a quartet of landing pads, a pair of motorpools, some training and exercise yards, and a pair of parking lots. The HQ itself was an immense five-story structure that was also built right into the rock of the mountain. They'd probably blasted out and shifted hundreds of tons of raw material to make room. It did present a rather impressive view.

He parked at the nearest open slot and the four of them got out. None of them spoke as they began making their way across the pavement. There was a tremendous amount of activity going on. Men and women, mostly Marines, were coming and going, shifting crates, working on vehicles, trading out guarding positions, running to and fro. He saw four Pelicans on the landing pads, though only one of them had any activity around it. That piqued his interest. He remembered the good Sergeant informing him that they couldn't fly because there was a residual charge still hanging around in the atmosphere that was screwing with equipment.

Had they found a way around that? Or was the charge fading?

He supposed he'd find out. They walked up to the front entrance, shifting between people coming and going, and found a lone Private standing just inside the door. Greg walked up to him and his eyes lit up as he came over.

"Corporal Walker? Lance Corporal Serrano?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes," Greg confirmed. "With a few friends. What's the situation?"

"Master Sergeant Gibson asked that you all be brought to him immediately," the Private replied, already walking deeper into the main entryway and beckoning for them to follow. They hurried after him, moving into a chromed corridor and down it at a brisk pace.

"Any idea what he wants us for?" Izzy asked.

"No. I know he's up to _something,_ but there's so much going on right now that I honestly couldn't give you even a faint idea. All I know is that we'd have been pretty screwed without him. He took control when the solar storm hit us, and then the Flood. He saved a lot of lives. He's very driven. But now he's passed the general command onto others, or that's what I've heard. So I guess he's up to something else."

Greg considered that as they tracked down an elevator and rode it up all four stories. When they got back out, the hallway was empty, and he heard almost nothing. This place seemed much less dirty and gritty. Probably where the Brass hung their hats and took their meetings. The unnamed Private took them all the way to the end of the corridor they were in and left them before a closed door, then hurried off, saying he had duties to attend to.

There was lettering across the top of the door.

 **MASTER SERGEANT GIBSON, W.**

Greg knocked on the door.

"Enter!" came the immediate response.

He opened the door and the four of them filed in. A stark office awaited them. One wall was home to some shelves that were sparsely populated with a few old hardback novels, some framed pictures, and a handful of other seemingly random objects. Another wall held some framed paintings. Besides that, there was just a desk and four chairs.

Despite the bleakness of the room, it was a commanding view, as the wall behind the desk was floor-to-ceiling glass that looked out over the mountain, the base, and the way they had driven in. The view was breathtaking.

The man behind the desk was also not what Greg had expected. For some reason he'd thought that this man who had saved so many people, who had taken charge of the situation, who had demanded that he and Izzy come to him, would be tall, imposing, even a bit threatening. But he wasn't. He was lean, middle-aged, was probably a few inches shorter than Greg, and wore rounded glasses beneath a head of short, dark hair.

He was smoking a cigarette. On the desk in front of him, Greg spied a black pack with the word **YEHEYUAN** stenciled across the front in red, and there was more Japanese text beneath that. The pack was nearly empty.

"Walker. Serrano," he said, sounding pleased. "I was informed you brought friends."

"You requested a medic," Ellis said, a touch defensively.

"I did indeed," he replied. "And who is this enterprising young man?" he asked, focusing very sharp blue eyes on Larsen. They were like chips of ice.

"Private First Class Hank Larsen, Master Sergeant," Larsen replied, snapping to attention.

"Are you now?" he asked. Gibson looked amused. "Why are you here, Larsen?"

"I wanted to be involved with whatever Walker and Serrano are," he replied.

"Hmm." If anything, he looked even more amused. "You may yet live to regret that. Sit. All of you." They all took a seat and he stood up suddenly, walked to the window and turned his back to them. He puffed on his cigarette for a moment, standing stock still, staring out the windows. "You've all had encounters with the Flood now," he said.

It wasn't a question, but he stopped speaking. "Yes, Master Sergeant," Greg replied.

"We still don't know where they've come from. Right now, our current working assumption is that a mining operation or something similar accidentally unearthed a vault that they were in. We're attempting to discern a point of origin, but that solar storm really burned our asses in more ways than one." He puffed on his cigarette a few more times, then sighed softly. Finally, he turned back around and walked over to his desk.

He sat down and set the cigarette down in an ashtray. "We don't have a lot of time and the sooner you get back out there, the better. Since the beginning, we've been scrambling to get our feet back under us, and we have now, finally, begun to do that. I've always been someone who looks beyond the immediate, at the bigger picture, and I didn't stop during the past week. We have a _tremendous_ opportunity here in terms of researching the Flood. Right now, most of humanity barely even knows they exist, as they have only been encountered in deep space under unique circumstances. As far as I know, something like what's happening now has never happened before. So, in short, practically speaking, you four are the beginnings of a task force that I am assembling to help assist with the research of the Flood."

He stared at them, perhaps waiting for their responses. They looked back at him, and then Greg realized that they were all slowly looking at him. He suppressed a sigh. "I understand, Master Sergeant," he replied. "What do you need us to do?"

Gibson positively beamed. "Becker was right about you. _You_ are someone who gets things done. I _appreciate_ that in a Marine. In a person, really. And you, Serrano. You proved yourself quite effectively on Polaris. Both of you did. And now, Ellis, Larsen, you have the opportunity to do the same. Now, again, practically speaking, what I need the four of you to do right now is to take a Warthog and drive out the back of this facility, deeper into the mountain range. There's a small emergency medical center about half an hour's drive from here that was largely abandoned long before this whole unpleasant business. I've decided it would be a perfect site for research to at least begin, and will serve your task force well as a home base. I sent a small recon squad out to investigate it this morning and they have yet to report back, unfortunately, so you'll also need to find out what happened to them. Once you have secured the outpost, contact me, I'll be giving you my personal transponder frequency so that we can stay in touch. I'll update you then...any questions?"

"Just one," Greg said, and Gibson leaned forward slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Why us? I'm sure you have tons of talented, dedicated, hardcore Marines to pick from here. Why did you wait for us?" he asked.

"Well, part of this was timing. But I do have a reason for choosing the two of you." He paused, then leaned back, seeming to consider his words. "I've been a Marine for twenty two years. I've seen so many things. Do anything for that long, and you start to discern patterns. You begin to see beyond the chaos and into the source code, into the invisible patterns that guide us. Something I learned is that some people have something...special. By choice, by birth, by circumstances...or probably all three and something more. This quality, it's an ability to overcome, adapt, and dominate seemingly insurmountable odds. Plenty of people can survive _one_ of the things that have happened to the two of you so far, but you've survived several insane things, based on the reports I've read on you given to me by Becker. The crash, Polaris Island, cleaning out the tunnel, the weather station, everything that happened in between there and Adamant…"

He chuckled and shook his head. "Even if I'm wrong, you're obviously very capable. But if I'm right, if you have that quality, that talent, that unnameable aspect that some people have and most people don't..." He leaned forward and clenched a fist. " _I want that._ I want to utilize it, because those like you are a force to be reckoned with, and you can get things done on a level that most other people cannot. That is why."

Greg stared at him. He had to admit, he was captivated by the man. There was a gravity to his words, an intensity to his gaze. He glanced at the others. They didn't seem sure of what to make of it. Honestly, he wasn't sure what to make of it himself.

"We'll get it done, Master Sergeant," he said finally, because it was the only thing that came to mind. Greg stood.

"Excellent! That is what I want to hear. Set your radios to frequency Echo November Seven, that's my personal frequency. Make sure you stop by the armory, get a new set of armor, and gear up, take whatever weapons you think you'll need. Any further questions?"

"Yeah," Izzy said, "I got one. What are we called?"

"Your task force? Hmm...what do you want to be called?"

"Task Force Reaper," she said, then looked around. Larsen nodded enthusiastically, and Ellis shrugged. Greg nodded once in assent. It was a good name.

Gibson grinned. "Then you are Task Force Reaper."


	28. Chapter 28: Armitage Station

"Is it just me, or is this weird?" Ellis asked as they walked into the armory they had just been shown to by another nameless Private.

"Kind of," Greg said.

"I don't know, I think it makes sense," Izzy said as she walked straight over to an armor locker, pried it open, and started taking off her old armor. Greg joined her. He had to admit, he was eager for a brand new set of local armor.

"What about this makes sense? We get ordered to drive a hundred miles in the middle of an invasion by a zombie army and in the aftermath of an ongoing natural disaster, so that we four, who would have been three if Larsen hadn't randomly decided to come along, can form a task force to research said zombie army," Ellis replied as she began sorting through a case of weapons. Larsen did the same, silently and eagerly picking through the guns.

"I mean, it makes sense inasmuch as anything makes sense recently. He has a point: we have a crazy opportunity here," Izzy replied.

"She's right," Greg said. "Consider the Flood. Consider how dangerous they are based on just what we've seen. One of the most dangerous aspects of an enemy is a lack of knowledge about them. We don't know what they're fully capable of. We need to understand them, figure out more effective ways to kill them, or prevent this from happening. Gibson is right, we can't just react to everything that's happening, that's not what we do. We adapt, and overcome, and plan for tomorrow. And like he said, we're just the beginning of the task force. Plus, I imagine that we were probably all he could get. I guess it'd be hard to convince people to get that fatal illness they contracted taken care of while they're dealing with gunshot wounds."

Ellis grunted unhappily. "People do tend to focus on the most immediate threat. All right, fair enough. I just hope we get some more backup. He seems to have a lot of faith in you two."

"Yeah..." Greg murmured. He'd finished getting the armor on save for the helmet, and now he stared at his reflection in the darkened visor. "I'm not sure it's rational."

"I don't know, he might have a point," Larsen said. "You two _have_ survived some improbable odds so far. Although I guess I'm not sure how much that reflects on me."

"Still want to find out?" Izzy asked.

"Yeah, I guess I do," he replied after a moment.

"Let's get on with it, then," Ellis said.

Greg nodded and pulled the helmet on. He ran a check of the suit's internal systems while he moved over to the weapon tables and started sorting. The armor felt good, at least. It all fit better and even had a kind of clean smell to it. As he sorted through the weapons, he marveled at the fact that he'd lost nearly everything he'd gathered on Polaris Island. He'd left his backpack behind at Adamant, given the notion that someone else could use it and the supplies he'd put into it. He'd left his shotgun in the Warthog, as it was seeing some serious wear and tear. And he was about to trade out his pistol. Honestly, all he had left was that black beanie, the uniform he'd found, and the combat knife. It made him think of how every seven years, every single cell in your body had been replaced with new cells, and so it begged the question, were you the same person?

It also made him consider the awesome power that a single human body could wield. The sheer amount of things that one person could get done, given time, determination, knowledge, skill, and some luck, was astounding.

He wondered if maybe Gibson had a point.

He wasn't so sure about himself and Izzy. Sure, they'd done a lot, and there was a lot more they could do, but were they indeed _special_?

Wasn't that the theory behind the Spartans? He'd never even really met a Spartan and he didn't know too much about them. He didn't even know where they had come from. But weren't they supposed to be special? Given the missions that no one else had a hope in hell of doing? Was he actually like that? Ultimately, Greg didn't want to linger on it too much. If he did believe in himself too much, he'd waltz into situations thinking he had protagonist armor, which wasn't even a real thing. Everyone was the protagonist of their own story, but everyone was subject to the whims and rules of the universe equally.

No, it only made sense to him to continue as he had been: being a Marine who was completing his objectives as efficiently as possible.

Greg found his focus honing down and zeroing in as he looked over the arsenal that had been presented to him. There was a lot to choose from, though the selection itself was somewhat limited. He finished checking out the M6G (and lamented that the M6D was so hard to get ahold of nowadays), made sure it was loaded and then slipped it into his hip holster. He checked over his knife again and saw that it was still in good condition. Well, he hadn't had all that much chance to use it yet, at least not compared to his guns.

He picked up a battle rifle and checked it over. It looked to be in excellent condition. Greg stared down the scope, then slapped a magazine in and let it hang by the strap attached to it, and then he packed as much spare ammo for both weapons as he could. He was reluctant to abandon the shotgun, but he'd seen the sheer stopping power the battle rifle had on the Flood, and it was effective at _all_ ranges. Or all the ones that mattered. And two weapons were usually enough. As he finished up, he looked around at the others.

"We good?" he asked.

"Yep," Izzy replied. She'd settled on the same weapon combination as him.

"I'm ready," Ellis said. She had grabbed an assault rifle and a pistol.

"Ready," Larsen said. He'd replaced his battle rifle with another, and apparently settled on an SMG as his backup weapon. Well, whatever worked for him.

"Then let's do this."

* * *

"Ellis, how'd you end up on Wintermute?" Greg asked.

They'd tracked down their Warthog, another Carrier snow model, this one in pristine condition. The route was programmed into the Warthog's map, which was intact, but all he had to do was follow a single road, so it was pretty easy. It would take him through the mountain range, essentially through it to the other side, where the medical outpost was positioned high on a plateau.

" _What?"_ she asked, her voice piped in through their squad radio signal. They'd decided on a set frequency and had attuned their helmet radios.

"Well, we're all an official task force now, maybe we should get to know each other a bit more. Izzy and I crashed here, Larsen's a local, what about you?"

" _I got rotated in two years ago,"_ she replied after a moment. _"I was on a ship before that."_

" _Why were you rotated?"_ Larsen asked.

" _I told my superiors I wanted a challenge."_

"Wow. That's...gutsy," Greg said. Those words were never a good idea to speak in the military. Because most people above you took a perverse pleasure in fulfilling your wish above and beyond what you thought was reasonable.

" _I wanted a challenge. I meant it,"_ she replied.

" _Was it challenging enough?"_ Izzy asked.

" _For the first few months, yeah. It was pretty brutal. Mainly just because of the cold and the snow. It's cold and snowy here so much of the year, especially where I was. The cold just saps your strength, but more than your physical strength. It saps your mental fortitude. It makes you want to just not do anything at all but get in out of it. It's brutal. I'd never really dealt with cold like that before. I hated it so much. But eventually I got used to it. It kind of felt like the right level of challenge after that. And then this shit happened."_

"You seem to have done well so far," Greg said.

" _It's hard to tell. I guess the fact that I'm alive and intact is a good sign, but who knows how long that'll keep up,"_ she muttered, and there was a grimness creeping into her voice, something that told him she might not particularly mind if death found her.

What had she been through?

He decided not to press it. Instead, he decided to check the scout team's frequency that had been passed onto him before leaving. "This is Corporal Walker to Recon Team Delta, if anyone can hear me, respond, over." He waited, listened, heard nothing and repeated the message once more before giving it a rest again.

" _What do you think might have happened?"_ Larsen asked, a note of anxiety in his voice now.

"Probably Flood, but it might just be bad equipment. Try to keep assumptions to zero," Greg replied, and began pushing the Warthog a little faster.

He had to admit, he wanted to find out what the hell had happened. Usually when a team went dark in hostile territory, it meant they were dead. He tried to stick to his own advice and not go into it with any expectations. Greg had just been handed brand new armor and weapons, a skilled team, and a vehicle, with a clear objective to boot. He was going to be like quicksilver, razor sharp and laser focused. As he cleared the rest of the distance, driving around a bend in the road, two cliff sheers rising up to either side of him, he realized that, in a way, he was getting exactly what he wanted. Earlier, he'd lamented being reinserted into the chain of command, missing the curious freedom of pure survival he'd been enjoying so far.

But this seemed like a nice compromise. Unless Gibson was a micromanager, Greg was probably going to be given free reign to complete objectives how best he saw fit. So maybe this whole task force setup was pretty great after all.

The curve finally straightened out, and that's when Greg saw the outpost. It wasn't very large, the kind of outpost that probably support a staff of maybe half a dozen, perhaps ten at most. The road they were on terminated in a parking area in front of the outpost, between a pair of landing pads where people were probably life-flighted to in better times. Or at least more functional times. Now all he saw were broken windows, blood stains, and dented walls. A dozen Flood corpses were spread out across the landing pads, and they saw another Warthog parked and empty.

"Well, they got here at least," Greg muttered as he pulled up beside the derelict vehicle and killed the engine. He tried the radio one more time. "Recon Team Delta, this is Corporal Walker, I am at your location, if you are present, please respond."

Still nothing, just dead air.

They all got out and prepared their arsenal.

Settling the battle rifle firmly into his grasp, Greg led the way. "Larsen, you've got exterior check," he said.

"On it," Larsen replied tightly, and slipped off to the right as they made their way towards the main structure. He disappeared from sight, padding off across the snow and ice.

"Keep it tight," Greg said and led the way in through the main entrance.

The front door was forced open. He stepped over a Flood Combat Form that looked as fresh as the others. Judging by the sheer amount of corpses and spent shell casings, it seemed obvious that the recon team had been through, and they'd done a lot of fighting. In fact…

"Aw crap," Izzy muttered as she saw it the same time he did.

"What?" Ellis asked.

"KIA," Greg replied, and pointed. Across the ingress point they'd come into, which was a barren room, empty save for a desk, a chair, and a place to put cold weather gear in the form of a row of slim lockers and coat hangars, was a body. Near the only other door in the room, which was also open, was a human corpse wearing snow camo gear. The body was laying half in and half out of the door, unmoving, with a lot of blood on it.

"Come on," Greg said and crept forward. The way beyond was darker, so he swapped to his pistol and activated the flashlight. He wished all the MG6 models had flashlights built into the barrels, but they seemed to be hit or miss.

An antechamber with a half dozen other doors awaited them, a pair in each wall. There were a lot more Flood corpses in there. And a lot of spent shell casings. Damn.

"What happened to him?" Greg asked softly as he stood guard and Ellis crouched by the body.

"He was shot in the face," she replied.

"What?! Friendly fire?" Izzy asked, her voice low but harsh.

"More than likely, but..."

"But what?" Greg asked.

"I don't know, doesn't feel right."

He finished shining his light across the interior, then hesitated and drifted back. There was another body that wasn't Flood. Another snow camo wearing soldier.

"Cover me," he said, and crept forward. Most of the doors were open and he checked them as he passed, though each one revealed only a dark interior. He came to rest over the body and froze. "What the hell?"

"What?" Izzy asked.

"She was shot, a _lot,_ " he muttered. The soldier's body was peppered with gunfire.

"Plasma fire?" Ellis asked uncertainly.

"No. Bullets."

He looked around suddenly as something caught on his mind, and felt a slow, creeping dread begin to steal into his soul as he shined his light down on the nearest Flood corpse. "That can't be right," he muttered.

"What?" He continued staring. "Greg, _what?_ " Izzy demanded.

"I think the Flood shot them."

" _What's going on in there?"_ Larsen asked.

"We've got two confirmed KIAs. What's it like out there?" Greg replied.

" _Dead. No activity. Did you say that the Flood are using guns?"_ he demanded.

"I think so. This Flood is holding a gun, a pistol, and here's another one holding an assault rifle. And I have serious doubts that there was _this much_ friendly fire."

"We need to report this," Ellis muttered.

"Let's finish our sweep. Larsen, come in through the front door and stand guard."

" _On it."_

"Ellis, stay here in case we need backup. Izzy, take the right doors, I'll take the left, then we'll both get the remainder," Greg said.

She nodded tightly and they got to work. The first room he stepped up to had its door forced open, and shining his light inside revealed a patient room with a pair of beds, some closet space, a table with two chairs around it, and another door at the back. It was a bloody mess, one of the beds was occupied by a corpse. He moved to the back of the room and checked out the single door, finding a mostly untouched bathroom, then left and moved to the second room. It was essentially a repeat of the first, though it was full of Flood bodies that looked like they'd been hosed down with gunfire. Damn, it looked like the recon team had been jumped, but…

Where was the third guy?

The profile Gibson had given him said that there should be three personnel. So far they'd found two of them, but where was the man in charge? Greg wanted to find him just about as much as he didn't, but he had to know, even if the reality was that he was just as dead as the rest of his squad.

"What've you got?" Greg asked as he emerged from the second patient room.

"Surgical bays, no survivors, just Flood corpses in there," Izzy replied.

"Let's keep going," Greg said, and moved over to the final two doors. One was open, one was closed. Greg decided to let Ellis guard the closed one for now and took Izzy through the open door. Another dark hallway filled with the dead awaited them, and it looked like the battle had continued on in here. There had to be half a dozen dead Flood in there, and spent shell casings were everywhere. Three more doors awaited them.

The first door was open, and as Greg approached it, he froze as he heard something. At first, he thought it was just his mind playing tricks on him, or maybe the wind outside interacting somehow with the base, but then he became positive that he was hearing something as he stepped closer to the door: breathing. Labored breathing.

"We might have found him," Greg muttered. "Get ready."

They stacked up on the door and after listening for a few seconds longer, he leaned out and aimed into the room. There were more dead Combat Forms in there, as well as...he focused the light on the figure sitting against the far wall of what appeared to be a patient room, for people to rest and recover in. Next to a bed with a scattering of medical supplies around them, sat a figure. That's where the breathing was coming from.

"Identify yourself," Greg said.

No response. He shifted closer and saw blood. Fresh and red and fully human. The flashlight's beam revealed a man in white camo. The armor was dented and the clothing was ripped. His helmet had a dent in it and his visor was cracked.

"Ellis! Get in here!" Greg called as he crouched by the man.

"Holy shit, I can't believe he's still alive," Izzy muttered. Greg wanted to shift him to a bed, but he knew he shouldn't move him until the extent of his wounds were revealed. Ellis ran in. She whispered a sharp curse and crouched by him, shooing Greg and Izzy out of the way. While she got to work checking the survivor over, he looked to Izzy. "Stay here for the moment. I'll finish checking this wing, then come back and get you so we can finish our sweep."

"Got it," she replied.

He left them and quickly checked out the remaining two rooms. The second was a copy of the first, another patient room for post-op patients to recover, and the third was what looked like a shared office. It had a pair of desks, some chairs, and a shelf filled with random items. It was relatively untouched by all the conflict that had battered the isolated facility. Greg doubled back and picked up Izzy, seeing that the two had shifted the survivor to one of the beds in the room and he was being tended to by Ellis now, who moved with a quick, calm professionalism.

"What's happening?" Larsen asked as they came back out into the main room.

"Found a survivor, he's in bad shape. Ellis is looking at him now. Have you seen anything?" Greg replied.

"No, nothing," he replied.

"Okay, stay here until we finish our sweep."

"Understood."

They slipped into the final portion of the facility, which turned out to be a tightly-packed living section. There were five bedrooms in a row, four of which were meant to hold two people in what must have been extremely close quarters, and the fifth one was the same size, but meant for one, probably whoever ran the place. They didn't even come with their own bathrooms. There was one, communal bathroom and shower area, a storage area, and a little mess hall. It had been mostly untouched by the Flood, though several windows were broken out and snow had drifted in. They spent a moment activating the shutters to seal the broken windows off.

Once they were sure the place was secure, they gathered Larsen and returned to Ellis and the unnamed Marine.

"How is he?" Greg asked, coming over. Ellis had an emergency lantern on and hung up on the wall by the patient bed where the man lay.

"In bad shape," she muttered, and tossed something onto the floor beside her. He saw that it was a tube of biofoam, and it was getting added to a small pile of them. "They cut him up pretty bad and he lost a lot of blood. That's why he was unconscious. I'd guess that he barely managed to kill the last of them, and came in here to patch himself up, as some of the wounds are bandaged over, but he lost too much blood before he could finish the job. It's lucky we got here when we did. This biofoam should help him heal up, though."

"What's his name?" Greg asked, coming closer. He studied the name's nameplate, which was embedded in his chest armor, which Ellis had removed and placed on the other bed. The nameplate read **L. CPL. LANEY, C.** "All right, got it. Izzy, we're going to need power. Any ideas where the generator might be? I didn't see it in here..."

"There's a few sheds around back, it's in the middle one," Larsen said.

"Okay, Larsen, go around and seal up all the broken windows, lock any exterior doors except the front door, and once you're done, you have guard duty in the main entryway, got it?"

"Understood," he replied, and set off.

"Ellis, keep working on him for now."

"Yep," she muttered as she pulled his boots off and began getting his leg armor off to get at all the wounds he'd gathered there.

"Izzy, let's go check on the power."

They headed through the base and back outside, into the cold. They moved around to the back and he spied three metal sheds lined up behind the base. They took a moment to check them out, finding two to be filled with crates that had a lot of spare parts and other random assortments like blankets, food, surgical equipment, and other things needed to run a medical outpost. The middle shed was indeed the one that held the generator, and Greg could tell right away that it was in very poor condition. In fact, Izzy only looked at it for a few minutes before giving him the bad news.

"So, this is going to take awhile and some rare parts to fix," she said. "I _can_ do it, and you're smart enough to assist me, but it'll take hours, and we need the parts. The good news is that there's a spare generator, and if we keep all non-essential systems offline, we can crank it up and have it last us a good few days."

"Okay, get it started. I'm going to call Gibson and see what he wants us to do next." She nodded and got to work. While she brought the auxiliary generator online, Greg stepped back outside and connected to the private frequency Gibson had given him.

" _Walker? That you?"_ Gibson asked almost as soon as he'd put in the call.

"Yes, Master Sergeant. This is Corporal Walker," Greg replied.

" _Give me the news."_

"The place is a mess, there's dead Flood everywhere, and two of your recon squad are dead. Lance Corporal Laney was the sole survivor and he's in bad shape. He's unconscious, being tended to right now. The base is also in shit condition. The primary generator is broken."

" _Damn...can you fix it?"_

"Yes, given a few hours and the proper equipment. There's one other thing: it's looking like the Flood here were using guns. Effectively."

" _Dammit, are you sure?"_

"Yes. The two here were killed by gunfire."

" _All right. We'd been hearing rumors."_ He sighed, then seemed to regain his focus. _"I'll let you in on the next part of this plan. I intend for your task force to use that medical outpost as a staging ground, a home base, for the duration. I want you and your squad to get it up and running as fast as possible. I'm forwarding you the locations of two nearby installations. One is a much smaller military outpost, mostly meant for storage more than anything else, and the other is a deep space observatory. They're both within driving distance. Both of them have gone silent since the incident and I haven't had a chance to send any personnel out there yet, so you're going to be going in blind. Also, any capable military survivors you find, you are officially allowed to conscript into Task Force Reaper, and that includes Lance Corporal Laney. When he wakes up, tell him he's been transferred. He can call and confirm with me, if he'd like."_

Greg was silent for a few seconds, not sure how to respond.

" _You still there, Walker?"_

"Yes, I am. Sorry. I just...this seems like a lot of responsibility."

" _I know, but I trust you with this."_ A pause. _"Maybe you should have a proper rank. Hold on."_ Greg waited, surprised by the sudden change in conversation. He heard typing. _"Okay, as of right now you are officially being promoted in field to Sergeant. Congratulations Sergeant Walker. It's been filed. Of course, we'll need to actually reestablish contact with the UNSC to officially update the records anywhere but Wintermute, but this works for now."_

"Uh...thank...you? Master Sergeant," he managed.

Gibson laughed. _"Enjoy it. I think you've earned it. Now get to work, your primary responsibility at the moment is getting that outpost operational."_

"Wait, I have one more question."

" _Yes?"_

"What's the outpost's name?"

" _Something boring. Given it's being repurposed, you can rename it. What do you want to call it?"_ he asked.

Greg thought for all of three seconds before a name, for some reason, leaped to mind. "Armitage Station."

" _Armitage Station it is. I'll make a note. Good luck. Out."_


	29. Chapter 29: Supply Run

Greg walked slowly back into the generator shed and found Izzy on the floor, hard at work bringing the auxiliary generator online.

"Hey, what happened?" she asked without looking up.

"Uh...we're using this as our base of operations, I named it Armitage Station, and I got promoted to Sergeant," he replied.

She looked up immediately. "What? Seriously?"

"Yeah. Gibson felt it appropriate, given that Task Force Reaper needs a leader. And we're allowed to conscript people into our task force," he replied.

"Holy shit, that's awesome." She stood up suddenly. "Wait, why did _you_ get a promotion? Wasn't he raving about what a great _duo_ you and I are?"

"I guess...he didn't think about it? It seemed kind of sudden," he replied with a shrug.

"Okay, hold on." She activated her radio and, apparently, called up Gibson. "Yeah, it's Serrano, Gibson. Why didn't I get promoted?" She paused, listened. Greg wondered if he should tune into the conversation, but then wondered if that might annoy her. "Yeah, I think so. I mean, you said it yourself: we _both_ kicked ass on Polaris." Another pause. Suddenly, she grinned. "Yeah, that works. Yeah, I know, I don't care about that. Okay, thanks...okay." Her grin grew as she looked at him again. "You are now looking at Sergeant Izzy," she said.

"Holy crap, really?"

"Yep!"

"That's awesome. Well, you certainly earned it."

"He also said that you still have operational discretion. So you're still in control. Which I don't care about, honestly. You've done well so far."

"Thanks." His helmet chimed as he received a data packet and he checked it out. It was a map of the local area, with routes to those two structures Gibson had indicated. He sighed softly.

"What?" Izzy asked.

"We've got our next objective, which is bringing this place back online. Which, at the moment, means raiding a pair of structures for resources to fix the generator, and anything else we can find. How long will it take you to get that auxiliary generator back online?" he asked.

"Ten minutes, tops," she replied.

"Okay, get on it. I'm going to go update the others."

"On it," she said, and set back to work.

Greg turned and began jogging around to the front entrance again, his mind working furiously as he considered the situation at large. This was a bit of a task ahead of him, but, well, he had operational discretion. It sounded like he was going to get his wish after all and be left to get the job done how he saw fit. Time to see how good he actually was at leading a squad of people in the middle of an exceptionally dangerous combat zone.

He found Larsen still on guard duty. "With me," he said, walking past him. Larsen fell in step behind him and they walked into the infirmary, where Ellis had just finished hooking an IV into the still-unconscious Laney.

"Is he okay?" Greg asked.

"Probably," Ellis replied. "His vitals are stable. His wounds are cleaned. I'm giving him a transfusion for the blood he's lost, and I've also given him a healthy dose of antibiotics, antivirals, and whatever else I can think of, given how much contact he's had with the Flood, and how filthy they are. What's happening?"

"This place is to be our base of operations as Task Force Reaper. Its designation is Armitage Station. Any forces we come across, we are now allowed to conscript into Task Force Reaper. Gibson just promoted Izzy and I in-field to Sergeants, and I'm officially to head up the task force. Right now, our primary responsibility is to bring this place back up to operational status. Izzy is bringing the auxiliary generator back online, once that's done, she and I are going to take the Warthog and leave. We have two other outposts to investigate for survivors and supplies. While we're gone, I want the two of you to get all the Flood bodies out and onto the landing pad. Don't mess them up otherwise, as they might be needed for research.

"Once you complete that objective, seal up the dead in bodybags and secure them in one of the storage sheds out back. When that's done, I need the two of you to begin sterilizing this place, mop up any and all blood and other biologicals you find. If you manage to finish that up before we get back, straighten up, and start performing an inventory of our supplies. Larsen, are we secure?" he asked, looking at the man.

"Yes, we are," he replied. "Back entrance is locked down tight, all the broken windows are sealed with shutters."

Greg frowned, considering something. "For now, seal every single window with a shutter. And lock down any rooms we aren't using after cleaning them up."

"Understood," Larsen replied.

"When Laney wakes up, bring him up to speed and, if he can manage it, put him to work. We're going to need all hands on deck for this one. But if not, keep him down. I don't need him hurting himself," Greg said.

"Understood," Ellis said.

"All right. Good luck. Get on the team frequency if anything at all happens, I want to stay up to date," he replied.

They both replied with an affirmative, and Greg let them work. He headed back outside and rejoined Izzy. As he did, he found her fitting the panel back into place. "Done," she said with a happy grin.

"Excellent work. Let's study up on the base and then go there," Greg replied.

They began to head for the Warthog.

* * *

The Marine Outpost wasn't all that far away.

Honestly, the most irritating part had been having to get the Warthog in through the main gate and driven around to the back of the medical facility, to access the road that ultimately would take them there. As they'd driven out there, Greg had largely been lost in his own thoughts. Mainly about this new responsibility that was laid at his feet. He actually liked the thought of running his own task force and being out in the wilderness, investigating derelict outposts, setting up a base of operations, and rescuing lost Marines and civilians. On the other hand, that was a lot of responsibility, and there were a lot of ways for things to go wrong.

But eventually, he noticed that Izzy wasn't saying anything.

"You doing okay? I thought you'd be hyped about your promotion," he asked.

" _I am. I mean, you know, as much as I can be. I actually didn't care all that much about the rank, to be honest. But...I guess I'm a little worried,"_ she replied.

"About?"

" _Everything."_ She laughed softly. _"It's so dangerous here. I guess I just keep coming back to the question of: how long can our luck hold strong?"_

"We don't just have luck backing us up. We've got skill, strength, experience, training..."

" _I know. And we've made it this far. And technically we can keep going strong. But luck can be a real wrench in the gears, you know? Bad luck, I mean. The Flood...they aren't like anything else we've had to fight before. They aren't like other humans or the Covenant or alien wildlife. They're...I mean, they're as close as we've ever gotten to like wild-ass sci-fi horror monsters. Like space zombies. I mean, they're nightmare stuff."_

"Yeah, they sure are," Greg muttered. "I know how you feel."

" _Don't mistake this as me thinking you aren't going to do a good job. Honestly, out of everyone on the team so far, you seem like the best choice to lead. Obviously not Larsen, and I don't want to lead, and I think Ellis feels the same way. No idea about Laney."_

"Well, I sure hope I can manage it," Greg replied. He shifted in his seat, sitting up a bit more as they came around a wall of rock and ice. "There it is."

They both became silent as he slowed the Warthog down. At the end of a little canyon they'd gotten themselves into sat the military outpost. It looked about the same size as the one back on Polaris that they'd set up shop in briefly, maybe a little bigger. It was surrounded by a simple chainlink fence, and it was obvious that the Flood had been here, though he didn't see any along the exterior. No live ones, anyway. There was another snow Warthog parked in front of the base, and the tracks looked recent. It seemed to be in terrible condition, however.

Greg parked a few meters away from it and they both stood up in their seats, surveying the situation.

A cold wind blew across the forsaken desolation of the canyon.

"Maybe we shoulda brought Larsen," Izzy muttered.

"You really want him along?" Greg asked.

"At this point, yeah. This place is creepy."

"Maybe," he said. "But I didn't want to leave Ellis alone. We can handle this. I mean, we handled the weather station."

"We _survived_ the weather station," she shot back. "Barely."

He just grunted, then activated his radio on a general shortwave. "This is Corporal-" He hesitated, cleared his throat. "This is Sergeant Walker of the UNSC Marine Corps, does anyone read? Over." He paused, waited, listened. Nothing. He repeated his message once, then sighed and switched back over to the team channel, though left the shortwave on receive.

"Forgot, huh?" Izzy asked as they hopped out onto the ground.

"Yeah. Gonna take a bit to get used to that," Greg replied.

They began walking over to the Warthog.

"You don't like Larsen?" she asked.

"What?" Greg replied. "He's fine. I guess I shouldn't rag on him. There's something about him...I guess maybe he seems too much like a rook, you know? Maybe it's his enthusiasm. I don't generally bag on rookies but you know how damned baked-in that shit is into the Corps."

She sighed. "Yeah, catch myself doing it every now and then...damn, what happened?"

They came to stand by the Warthog. It had obviously been through hell. A few streamers of smoke were rising from beneath the hood. The hull was dented and splattered with blood. Mostly it looked like it came from the Flood creatures, but some was definitely human. The front windshield was shattered and one of the tires was deflated.

"I don't think this thing is going anywhere," Izzy murmured.

"Might be survivors, come on," Greg said, and set off towards the outpost.

Greg listened as he readjusted his grip on his battle rifle. He could hear the cold wind blowing, he could hear their boots crunching in the snow, and…

Nothing else.

There were a handful of Combat Form corpses scattered across the inside of the fenced interior. The outpost looked to be a single structure. The main entrance looked firmly closed, and he actually saw a bloody handprint across it.

He and Izzy exchanged glances as they approached it.

"It's not even frozen yet," Izzy muttered.

"Someone's definitely here," Greg replied. He tried opening the door and got what was surely the exact same response whoever had tried to get in earlier had: a sharp buzz. "Locked."

"Want me to try and crack it?" she asked.

"No, they found another way in," Greg said, pointing.

There was a blood trail, he realized, in the snow. They followed it along the front of the structure, along the weather-chewed, frigid metal exterior around to a closed garage door, then around a corner and to the side of the outpost, where the trail terminated in a side door. It was closed and there was more blood smeared on the panel, but this one wasn't locked.

"Get ready," Greg murmured.

"Check," Izzy replied. She took a step back, raising her battle rifle, covering him.

Greg opened the door.

"Clear," she said softly.

"You got left," he said.

She nodded, shifting closer to the door. Greg stepped in with her immediately behind him, each of them sweeping their section of the room. The light was good enough to show a motorpool empty of vehicles, populated sparsely by crates, tables, and shelves littered with oily tools and spare parts. The blood trail continued across the garage, to a door across it that was still open. The pair quickly cleared the garage and then moved through the door beyond. It led to a darkened corridor. Greg switched to his pistol and turned on the flashlight, as did Izzy. He motioned to her: the blood trail continued down the right side of the hall.

Greg listened closely as they eased down the passageway. Now that the winds had fallen away, reduced to a distant, mournful howl beyond the titanium plating, it was easier to hear things. For the first few moments as they moved down the hallway, checking the doors that were open, he heard only the wind and the movements he and Izzy made. It was obvious that power had died here some time ago. There was frost covering a lot of stuff and everything was dark, dead, and cold. They passed a derelict office, an abandoned barracks, a forsaken storage room. And then, as they reached the end of the hallway, where it turned to the left, he heard something. Izzy froze at the same time he did, so she'd heard it too.

It was a very slight sound, almost like a footstep, and it had come from behind them.

They both turned, shining their lights back down the length of the corridor. There were signs of battle: some shell casings on the floor, a bit of blood on the wall, and a lonely Combat Form corpse, but otherwise he could see nothing out of place. There were several doors, though.

"Watch our six," he muttered finally.

"Yep," Izzy replied softly, and they kept going.

Greg stepped out, shining his light and pistol down the next length of corridor. The blood trail extended a little ways down it and terminated in a closed door in the left wall. They moved carefully up to it, and as Greg motioned to Izzy to get into position, the door suddenly opened up and a snow camo-clad figure stepped out.

"Ah!"

"Identify yourself!" Greg snapped, more out of surprise and automatic reaction than anything else.

"P-Private Coretti," the young Marine standing before him stammered. He lowered his pistol. "Oh thank God, I thought I was the only one left," he whispered.

Greg let his breath out slowly as he lowered his own pistol. "Are you hurt?"

"No. I..." He looked past Greg and Izzy, back the way they'd come, then over his shoulder, down the other length of corridor. "I thought you were it."

"It?" Izzy asked.

"The...thing, I don't know what it is. It's in the base."

"Are you sure?" Greg asked, looking around.

"Yes. I saw movement when I was first coming in here..."

"Great. Fall back," he replied, pointing to the door the man had appeared through. The young Marine nodded gratefully and did just that. He and Izzy followed. As Greg looked around the small infirmary that they'd come to, Izzy secured the door behind them. He saw a pale man, also fairly young looking, laid out on an exam table.

He wasn't moving.

"Is he dead?" Greg asked softly.

Coretti sighed heavily. "Yes. He died maybe ten minutes ago. I didn't even realize he was dead. I thought he was just unconscious..."

"Is it just you?"

"Yeah."

"Why don't you tell me how you got here?" Greg asked. He began moving around the infirmary, checking it out for medical supplies. "Izzy, pack up whatever you can find. We can use this stuff over at Armitage."

"Yep," she replied, and set to work.

"I, um, I was stationed at another place a few dozen miles from here. The power outage and the weird green lights hit and for a few days we just stayed at the outpost, trying to figure out what the hell had happened. Comms were down, sensors were down, we didn't even have power for two days. I thought we'd freeze to death...and then _they_ came."

"The Flood?" Greg asked.

"Yeah. One of the guys stationed there had heard of them before. He knew what they were, sort of, at least. They attacked us by the dozens. We fought for days trying to hold them off. Finally, me and a squad were sent out to a comms relay to try and fix it so we could get a call for help out. We went out there, found the place totally trashed, broken beyond repair, and lost two people in the process. The Flood were around, and so were some of the damned vargs. We got back to base and found it totally overrun. We tried to mount a rescue, but in the end it was just me and Mickey there and another guy, Paulson, who got away in the Warthog. We started heading to the Regional HQ, ran into a lot of trouble on the way there…"

He sighed and shook his head, then popped his neck. "Paulson got killed on the way over, and Mickey got gutted by one of the bastards. We found out there was an outpost here, I drove up the mountain, trying to get him to the infirmary in time. Dragged his ass in after killing some of the things out front, he was bleeding all over the place...like I said, I didn't realize he was dead until I finally got him to the infirmary and started trying to put him back together more than I managed in the field. And now it's just me…"

"I'm sorry," Greg said. "You sure you aren't hurt?"

"No, I'm fine. Dead on my feet, but I managed to make it out okay...who are you?"

"I'm Sergeant Walker. That's Sergeant Serrano. We're part of Task Force Reaper."

"Sounds serious," Coretti replied.

"Yes. We've been assembled to establish a research operation on the Flood."

"Oh...that sounds important."

"It is. I'm in charge and I've been given conscription rights. So, as of this moment, Private Coretti, you are part of Task Force Reaper."

"Well...wow, okay. Although I gotta be honest, I'm not sure how much I can do. I've only been a Marine for six months..."

"To be honest, we've just begun, and we're so short-handed that even having someone to drive a Warthog or shift some crates or stand guard duty would be immensely helpful."

"I can do that," he said, sounding a little relieved.

"Good. Now, you said something was in the base with us. You think it's a Flood?"

"I honestly don't know. I mean, all the Flood things I've seen so far have just run at me screaming. Whatever it was seems like it might be hiding, so maybe it's some kind of animal? Or maybe another survivor, I don't know," he replied.

Greg considered it, and sized Coretti up. He looked young and green, but the fact that he'd made it this far must mean something. His uniform and armor were torn, dented, and bloodstained, and he was armed with a pistol and a shotgun. His helmet looked like it had taken some damage. "Did you hear my message over the comms?"

"No, my radio took a bad hit," Coretti replied.

"Figured as much. Our primary goal here is to search for survivors and recover crucial components from the base's generator. Though first I think we should hunt down this mystery guest haunting the base," Greg said.

"Okay. I'm ready, I guess," Coretti replied.

"Izzy?"

"Done packing," she replied. "I'm ready."

"Let's go."

They left the infirmary and stepped back out into the corridor. It was as vacant as ever, but now Greg felt like he was being watched. Was that paranoia now that he knew someone or something else was in the base with them?

"I don't suppose you have any idea where it might be?" Greg asked quietly.

"No," Coretti replied.

"Okay. Stick close. We'll sweep the base."

They set off down the corridor, taking care this time around to check every single door, opening up the ones that were closed. The base at least seemed to have very minimal power left. The next ten minutes passed by in tense silence. Every time he opened a new door or stepped up to an open doorway, Greg tensed, expecting an attack. But it never came. Each time he opened a new door and cleared another room, the tension ratcheted up a notch. And with each passing moment, the feeling of being watched, of being hunted, swelled.

He passed another storage area, a mess hall, some offices, a bathroom, each of them either untouched or showing at least some signs of battle. In a few areas, people had obviously come in to make last stands or just to die. There were several corpses among the shadows revealed by the flashlight's beam. More bodies to check for supplies, more dead to bury, eventually. If anyone actually survived this godforsaken nightmare.

The three of them made almost a complete circuit of the outpost before they ran into a problem. As they continued checking out the abandoned outpost, he began to hear noises. At first it seemed like it could just be the wind or nerves, but as they neared the main entrance, where he and Izzy, and earlier Coretti and his dead friend, had originally tried to enter, they definitely heard something. And it was coming from behind them.

All three of them immediately turned back and aimed their flashlights through the open door. The room they'd come to was a simple reception lobby with three ways out and it was painted in blood. It looked like a lot of the fighting had gone on in here, although obviously someone had managed to seal the front door and windows at some point. They waited, their flashlights pointing at the open doorway, lighting it up.

Nothing happened for almost two minutes.

Finally, Greg sighed softly. "Whatever it is, I don't think it's going to come to us."

"Not unless we draw it out," Izzy muttered.

"I'm bait," Greg said as he considered and accepted the idea, and before Izzy could recommend otherwise.

"No," she replied immediately.

"I'm in charge here."

"I _knew_ it was gonna go to your damned head," she muttered.

"I'll make it up to you later, but I'm pulling rank," he replied.

"We're the same rank now," she said. He stared at her. She sighed, more of a growl, but otherwise didn't argue.

"You don't think it can understand us, do you?" Coretti muttered.

"No, but if we linger too long maybe it will." He paused, then slowly and quietly began to make his way towards the front desk. It was set towards the back of the room, directly opposite the front door. He pointed to the right-hand door that would take them back to the initial corridor the garage had let out into. "Let's keep going," he said loudly.

"You got it, Sergeant," Izzy replied.

Greg turned off his light and dropped into a crouch beside the desk. He focused on being absolutely still. Izzy asked Coretti a question as they slowly walked into the corridor, their lights gradually disappearing. He responded and actually sounded pretty natural. It felt weird, acting for the benefit of what was probably a Flood creature, although surely if it was it was unlike anything else they had encountered so far.

Greg waited for almost thirty seconds, his eyes adjusting to the darkness.

And then he heard it.

Very, very soft footfalls, one after the other, surely more than two feet, none of them clad in boots. It entered from the way they initially had and drifted across the room, following after Izzy and Coretti. The darkness wasn't absolute, but he could hardly see anything at all and was largely going by his ears more than his eyes. His pistol was pointed towards the door, unwavering, his finger on the switch to hit the flashlight.

Just a few…

More…

Greg flipped on the flashlight and recoiled in shock at what it lit up. "What the hell!?" he screamed. The creature was low to the floor, down on four legs, and it was definitely a Flood. It shrieked wildly and began scurrying towards him, reaching at him with pincers as it came up onto two legs. He pulled the trigger three times and splattered greenish gore across the deckplates. The shrieking cut off and the thing collapsed into an unmoving heap.

"Greg?!" Izzy called. He heard running footsteps.

"I'm okay!" he called back, standing up, unable to take his eyes off of the creature.

Izzy appeared in the doorway and aimed her light at the body. "What _is_ that?!" she demanded.

"No idea," Greg muttered, still covering it with his own pistol. "But this is _definitely_ something new. A big discovery...we're gonna have to take it with us."

"Yeah," Izzy said.

"God, _that_ thing was in here with me?" Coretti moaned.

"Yep. At least it's dead now."

" _Is_ it dead?" Coretti asked.

Greg stepped forward and kicked at it a few times. It didn't react at all and it wasn't moving in the slightest, though he wasn't sure if Flood needed to breathe. He was tempted to shoot it several more times, but he imagined Gibson would want it as intact as possible.

"All right," he said, "let's secure this thing, then search the outpost for whatever supplies we can, and strip that generator for parts."

They all stared at the dead Flood for a second longer, then got to work.


End file.
